Not far from near future, we bendlight around corners. Down periscope.Up and away from you all.
Take me at my word: they’ve outlawed affection.We lock in, throbbing like old scars. Your breathmakes me bleed: you’ve cornered the marketon moonglow.
Aurora sheds her darknesslike a golden cobra moltingblue-black crepe. Her supplicantsoffer a hairpin turn, vitiated.
So delightfully girlish in your hot pinkpuckered dirndl, you couldn’t help butflabbergast the incoming minstrel.The orchestral accompanimentwill be conducted by remote control.
Goldilocks, tearing apart yet anotherinnocent family, gathers herself to honorthe return of the prodigal, then flashesa crooked smile like some shifty little nail-toughwideout with great hands who earns a livingsnagging spirals over the middle, getting hammered,and losing what’s left of his wisdom teeth.
We saw the all-encompassing radiance waneas we sidled into the panic room. Still plenty leftto celebrate: a box of stick matches, a handful of crumbs,this frangible Japanese lantern.
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Photo by Christopher Sardegna on Unsplash