Saturday

On end

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Mona's buried four score and ten, And the blue ship, the rocking moat. Jill's boot-heels
tender to the touch, her oedipal haloo and leading rhythm section. Cut that baby making your head stand on end, and wonder to the end. A dock? a wharf she means with the pristine choice of her lips. She's gazing in wonder at him talking. About his school chum and other brigands a moonlit anecdote and the  balmy hesitation of early autumn. But if she gets ready to sail off to Europe none of it will matter unless there's a war. Sail! are you nuts! crackers!disjointed! No, it's the full moon of full moons hankering down the low autumn sky    ~ and the fields are practiced . At what? at being . Being? lovers and other secret  lavender paramours.

i'll buffo and buffo your buffalo house down . On the marvelous practicum of your love. 
And if this way she sees me good, if not what then . it's the round the hill and the half-sweater.

   Beckoning by  billet and fragrant two young women in their thirties waiting to cross the street. And the avenue glitters with hope, their hope lascivious with the wind. No 'lamnetala' this but cantilene to your overwanting sensuality. 

Who's ? Jill and Franny's and the skirt. Mona's not 'into' flowers. Say,  daffodils, daisies, and chrysanthemums. she  remembers them, had them, held them, cultivated them. But recall them?

Not a chance . She's whiskered by cuts and crates, and no flower remains in this hiphead, this warlocked remaindered brain.Without a creamy road a brushing preeminent to her path alongward what would she do? Not a thing at all actually. Virtually, she's got seven lives to give. so So what the hell. She's the ironist of annealment and scrolling along e very true tuba tune. Her lute's the fine passage between her room and the sun.

If this way she uncovers the pellet she'd find her way back to the reredo the repetitious concoction.A pittance compared to what no one knows else. If she's fishing she's headed to Cuba, for other masters  of the deterritorialized and the Silenus the silence that encrusts her worshipping thighs. Not a muster but a seal. If she'd foster tum-ti-tum she'd ring a wish of hamstrings and harmonies paid by the hour, but no such things work in her favor. Living on the bum is best made this way, begetting not foraging the link between sun and eye. If this shapely thing's her nave then she's best behooved in the tropics of yawning .