Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Reflections (Vol 2)

                                   All was said and done in the Autumn
                                        on the second story landing of an
                                           roach-infested apartment building.
                              A three-o-clock sun infernally made its way through
                                              doleful damasks of antipathetic cloud formation
                                               radiantly interwoven anon eternity's entirety
                                                      (celestial magnitude)
                                   How carnivorously; afternoons' monotony gnawed at our souls individually; as nail-bitten fingers incessantly pressed to elementary blackboards, chalked and grey-
                              impetuously bruised bare flesh finger sores
                                  bled reluctantly onto the porcelain
                                           floor of a Westminster classroom .
                                                 Now I'm back in high-school mailing Christmas cards in frost-bitten February on stale Tuesday mornings to
                                     Joan of Arc's great- lascivious-granddaughter: the cumbrous bitch that fervently nits her way beside a warm residential mantel, into my lackluster world of hollowed-out antiquities:
                                  Star-Wars figurines and Muppet Babies' bedsheets 
                              Bourgeois in her parents mahogany bedroom
                                   we dry-humped after school in catlike desperation
                                  She digressed on me; her smile was all I coveted.
                                  Wintry boughs swayed in withered latitude. Wool covered her itchy nose; pale skin etched to complexion incarnadine. February moss subsided off our rock-jagged precipice.
                                     On the cool crags of a moonlit coast
                                              Our gulf grew olde beyond the silhouetted buoys
                                          In wind-ridden vales; the hunted lamb howled- hauntingly leavening
                                               the ethereal silence;
                                 reposed in our neighborhood hearth we quarreled 'till placid daybreak ascended
                                                    then malingered..........
                                            upon the frail deserted street
                                    the liquor store would open; but your mind wouldn't
                                        our cats pronounced dead on the same din stroke of  midnight.
                                         both inflected gloomily in morning obituaries
                                           through living-room window tapestries
                                   she set her reading-glasses onto a glass plated coffee-table
                                         folded her newspaper then
                                                went to back to bed.
                            

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