Thursday

~ in the deep refridgerator


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 In  the deep freesze lover.    Wake up it's o ver
  pain frost lies and war. leaks and secret trysts hanging on by the teeth

  and the plainful painful bending of the flower

 if you sleep don't sleep
  there's love and company in the twilight zOne! thasts Mona rerun and the amethyst chain

Over the noster you got the coster no its the cozening on Villeneuve with ripped up papers not a method  but a steering finding acting    ~ it was what it was not something else it was what it was not something pretending to be anything other bbut

bububut that  hours and Molly in the kitchen was that her what became of her and you were heading to France that summer again hearing the live lectures and the fervor of fire in the air as the advancing plane and wave of love swept its hour journal across the page



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Sunday

she's pluralistic


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She's pluralistic when she's got time. Got time you say? She say  it . Rubbing elbows with the refrigerator ~

    but a shrinking page and stinking age wars by her feet tumbled agains the block lift her higher and higher.  Ooopppss there goes a sideways leap~. She's bounced again to eternity and its high transcendence .  O eternal ghost of the inlove to time's toe to toe saunter.

She's become this very thing  not in itself but by itself a supple smile a solitary smile on her face   ~   .





A meaningful operetta


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Mona's pluralistic part-time that's not wharfed by the partial dent o f sideass
becoming. A tart to play her day a tune ringing her night.

Pluralistic Mona when she's got time.


             J I took you to bed in my mouth on paper. Thank you thank you very much for          becoming a full mouth of verse and not a curse or what's worse hanging to the edge of                         the bed with a book of beads and gum. As any other thing becoming  a pear a bitter clove a stranger becoming holding her head neighing                      

back from the nave of the hanging ridge and  a flaky sun too    ~



                                 O Jill!~ O  buttocks! O veins!~ dont waste your mouth on  bourgeois dreams! The word tucks its merit to her face killing the instant of postcopulation bills and bliss makes its way out a long way ~


Is there a  beat to this concession a woman pushed up against a wall will strike back! If she cant find another road through won't she? 
a twisting cloud crumbling at her feet leaves the tearful Christ alone a son at the dogmoon's bone wondering what can  come of this.


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