When a burnt sienna spray calls into question
the demonic as a matter of recognition white,
a risen pyramid hirsute frames a sweet vise in
a mind that simple waits a yardbird screaming
mean blues harp matters when she she she goes
goes goes apeshit 'cause her red shirt blinds you're
already blind and recognition is a small compense.
She stared she scared in Pythagorean angles square
and solids were, well, another golden matter then.
Wrinkles for sure but also endless love unending.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
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Gerry,
ReplyDeleteNice to find this evening delicacy as my day endeth here...Might be an alternative version of that old Botox Blues.....:) Eileen