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Feeding Lola's Brother
My note of moment is sterling,
a placid queen like Lola grimly bearing
the ride back from London:
her course of pills, my synthetic fidelities
to Orion to friends lucky's reasons
both corrupt and late in carriage. White
fired from the sticks we shush, blood
rattled on Essex flatland we sniff
em out and are distracted with lust.
Placid sterling, agent of this rocking,
tingle in our pockets. Every change
of season brings heat to the danger
of purchase this, and that. Till--
He puts his thumbs on her eyes--
1 Will Be Back At Nine
To appear in public sectioned as citrus, appease.
On ads to talk a wet red circle. I'd even fund
love of the bawd from hate field to this
very sheet's evidence. Data brought this way by way
of the flux. Listening drips on
our din-din its need for an hour's
light talk.
Kept by customs to a traffic mark, one hovers over these ports for
hours. Another 10,000's another 4-blank interest, one on four off state.
Eye the tide-break's sturdy geometric distribution. More magic
in scattered shabby evils, ready to sue Officer D. Now,
connivance this noon of their bubble
shelter to my drum-like surface
paddled speech.
Remember when we all heard about Arethede, gone
from her column in a blue-frilled jacket. Where is she now?
Hung forever on a comet that underwrote her efficient, endearing,
moving like mercury through the tunnels
of ears pen tongue. Forgive oneself
the eaves drip where they are with
her soulful abandon.
Did we speak on this? Damage scratched in the casings
of the shell of twin interest, dashed to the scene of, goes a
a columnist in impractical collar. Sorry for remembering it
in public. Arethede atones for whatever didn't save her
from her unstoppable wristwatch
and expedient frill heard and seen
loosely, want
the red's wet centre draped in outerwear.
Fun * Leisure * Sport * Pleasure
Blaze of day has run through clean towels and the Ram.
Back gently among daughters and others.
She casts off her already ruined one for her other one--
weedy quick, industrious with color, foraging for fun.
Blue diesel, creamers, value items pucker over the parade
where burnt kids virgin for once in their goddamn lives.
What darkens the downtown corner near the POW column,
who'd go down there anyhow.
Fair's pin brightness rides into shipping channels
where sand stirs and is made for tonight's dollar-token.
In a house of birds, a house of reptiles, the moving floor
of the fun house and the house of fame.
How should Paulette Bristow have that grace to begin, as blue
as the Aitken girls on the verge of their cautious party
toast each other to vie for the king's hand; she strips off and
puts on a portal of necessity and baby A's diaper.
Something of my own fact possesses. But if I begin in
Gravers Lane, my tiny warm pocket which by levy
becomes a maw to the world, and recoil what ratio
should this citizeness of Britain exact? The pleasure
parade's full of dressed-up pleasant people. Even in America
could my sister cut off her own arm? The leisure of script
forces itself as forward as the Yarmouth sandbar, cutting
off the crude from heavy shipping belonging to a Greek
from baby 2 dabbling. The leisure of preparation
for commemoration appears under 'deed',
my leisure takes a tiny bite of it.
For who shall give thee that grace to begin. I ask Paulette
but she's filmed and halted. For the thought
has pressed forward on her like a sport; I full
court press up to another filling baskets
that way and as my coin, so my coining.
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