Thursday, December 22, 2011

Pre-Historic Comedy Press

Garden of babies? I planted the sun under the tongue of returns. A whimper winds the sound gears grind over. Foraged syntax. Who romps the ruins? To locate a glance in the forest, stride through the wild chives, the beehive swinging like a lantern. Honey & hiccups.

Who kneed the hummingbird that despaired the tulip's chalice. Who in the leaf-lavished air will stick. Belly-ached into an album. Light lifts nothing. Forged opacity. Face.

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