Sunday

She came

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 She came  to believe that 'my'  Fanny was not hers.  Or guess the proportionate weight of spoon versus revivial edge. Not old bum Cleopatra's boot, not feedless yowling to heaven bashed moon. Nor god on his throne taking a peak,a  leak,a crap to creation's solemn groat.....  Not her ass! her fanny field wore the etymological fiscal plate of love's guess _______________Her house made a woods had a get outta  here anytime claws! No pause to this fortune of begriffs and heaves the Hegelian wrong.  There was a thousand fannies to her every diversification. Along the running girl of edge and how could any be recalled .

This granule of sweet.   ~

If some how the pottage bartered wings? O soullless gesso! What gryphon are ye? Hair on yer head  standing at the bottom of the ladder.


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