Monday

Would she could

Would she could, she'd  gather all living things:titubant the feet the troglodyte gait. No one knows a penny-farthing any-longer around her air . A fine fair trance.
 Jill squirms from time to time not like. But a cheap day, a cheap-side edition her head figured knotted rolling over a  switchboard and back back going to the pity of it, she's pot-bellied before every summer. And, and as for the hairy  one and its pretenses we know where that comes from. A man without a theory is a woman without a home.  Jack has a pink punk rose in his mouth buttoning his teeth for the end. Hardly able to wait to get out.
 She's in a tizzy, or a mizzen plateau. of glorying grief. One word after another pour.



Jill reminds her that if that pathetic creature is any measure of intelligence then we've got ourselves in trouble. And the fellow reeks ! the stench of institutionalization. A sickening malodorous smell permeates the character. but that's just a temporary moment . It's obvious
any moment's temp. As a part-time worker hired for the hour, to comely hold her
ass her cunt high held like an elevator between floors the man's mouthface glued to it
s hum-digger ties, and her text unreadable as any corset a two dollar epic storm going on
forever and forever. and she's seen the part-time lover punished permanently in exile? O exile of her ass as the part time worker coming in her face to face . And midsentencing break.
----------------- Back to Mona and her jewels titian?coarsely she's red white and blue, but brownish orange most of all.

if she comes
(think of the gardenia, the petunia or other settled plants that become flower. is that flower a hippy)  there's bound to be a catch or a snarl-up in the rhizome rooted soil. A patterned labyrinth of kilted songs around the spare wheel of her becoming love.  A hurrier a tornado a pickle path through the latest tender trying. A category escaping establishment to the moment of her nearest breath and if a tidy up was needed she 'd be the first to find out/


O my riddled mouth. O ecstatic static O plum! 
Rationing comes after. She's bringing the back burner forward. A bump,  a tidy hump, a ridge,a  lurch in the entrance, and the center of things. That said we'd better be coming and then let the pressure off. A giddy stance a coquettish feel for things her aptitude for reserve and English love. Silence is the golden throb of her so be it and so begat it. A simple symbol for coming attitudes.

Jack would rather butt sex than heads, however, However the raggedy edge of a  thing is god is it not? She's camped in a river town by ... what do you call it? Starry-eyed expectations   lover.

Toccata. Coquettish pause thunder reminder? She'd be picking crumbs off his locum.
If that's how she feels she might as well get a pinch-hitter. Any surrogate'd be better than that!


             A pleat filled memory jammed to the top switchboard whammy. A true silk nun,a fine knight of the rousing kind. And then some. Before Jill was made I was. She. Mona, and the merry monkey the chimpanzee of grief and the golden cucumber of the geese. 
Flying flung over the north. Far as any-longer rainbow.

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