Saturday, June 11, 2011

Mercy is Always

Scissoring daisies we spooked a fawn. A lie is a lie, not a concertina. Deceased spermatazoa attended by dreams of bluets. Another night of rain.

Another night inside the rain. I missed you when you moved to England some twenty-odd years ago. "It's sweeter not to read the mail." A swell focus on the welter of grace delineates this moment of writing.

Just eating beef suits you. Flip flops sailing through the air, landing on cars, lost in the raspberries. That invitation went straight into the trash. There is a hidden cost to any meteoric rise.

A thinning herd of cattle losing its trust. Lightening inside the clouds. Seeing you makes me suck in my gut and mentally rewrite my resume. Don't worry - it's all part of my syntagmatic strategy.

A narrative that matches yours but falls short of merging with it is what? Mercy is always. I said Christmas but I meant vintage umbrella. Oh you sweet forbidden you.

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