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this fiction of mine laboured tightly in the skull of memories and mysteries worked to the wheel by furies who deal the willing thread in...

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

everyday spirits


look the statue in the eye...make sure
there is no wanton prayers
remember mother sang through the midday call
in the face of a well known score and dilligently
no matter what her chores
as the children pranced to a ball
-forsake me not / gimme shelter / i'll walk down
and turn on everyone at the other end-
behold! our praise is shattered and blown to bits
are the chances to connect with one burgundy
madonna -stanced whip in hand-
to master the punks hollerin' shindy
she addresses all under a wild sun to exorcize
their nature with pangs communal
and set them straight on their way to heaven

it followed reeling shadows reaching everywhere
in the evening bloom mom had gone and the kids
danced to a blur the icons of an afternoon

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