9 October 2007

Sunday Pasties and a Chronicle of AntiTerra

Something tastes different, maybe it's my tongue.
Something tastes different, suddenly I'm not so young.

I dream of cavendish and lavender swimming softly in Rubicon hope, a blackwatch rain bouncing off black slate stone at Haddow's square store upon the square street. Tintintin, a gaggle of bronze abhorrations sung in microscopic peals; so let us speak of crassly blazed and bloated blue Hogmanay, of richly brown Walpurgis Nacht, of a deeply inked and indigo sate. But I can never ripple the way you ring with laughter because my chords are not tuned to your key of Echo. I cannot turn my words as you roll your littoral wine humming in a low tumbling rose, reeling in your cheeky, bi-valved blush, rounding over your lips in a silky crimson crush. So left to suck and stall, I can only toss the earth-sodden tonic burning back, twisting in revel and twining in skin, the scarlet-amber threads, the peach-blue veins of your dusky summer drawl.
Having fallen back on this earth, its true, as they say, thoughts interrupting other th-- its only bright round sliver-sunk jesus cannibalising cherry-blossom cunts, waver-wafting in an enzyme-turbid plea. Cocoa-Rococo, Henry the E-I-G-H-tH infested ba-roke-wood sins mauving sutures. And once we're spun in gossamer feathers, tacked and turned, spun and strung, we'll once have been carrion-crow cameras photographing green.

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