97.

by devi beloved

the delay process is a transistral pheromelon, somewhat dubthwacked as a measure for hypersurreal eschafanctory groan // the stone had a word, the third had a loan, & all those in favour braised their gland, & those against freighters listed bewillingly to remnant shards // euridicyl benumbed with milling flirtations, but that’s beside the oint: it is the lean mass that one acquires, when choosing to live on one’s feet for awhile, that deters the horizontal but certainly clears the mind // & the lipso, as you might’ve gathered, is greeling towards a close: come close, so you can hear my meaning; these mutterances are numbered, are sleathingly becoming anti or other, though the patterns in the weather persist in their flummoxing of us // in a matter or months the newspring stripped to summer, & now my summer is beginning to clothe itself in the colours of fall // girls of a sundress stick together // a different priestess with another tail to fell, that is my calling; for the future in such terms is a fiddly bet, & just ’cause i made eyes at you doesn’t mean you’re real, doesn’t mean i’m not (still) living in dreams // what a dirty world, what a dirty mess, i’m nearly bloodywell over it //

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