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I think it's Monday
it used to be Monday
I'm sure it's Monday
but it could be
a fried egg.

The cats have gone
the table's bare
the cards were marked
the dogs are going spare
they're selling me in antique shops
along the 'Lanes' of Brighton,

it's not fair
it used to be Monday.
A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
                    A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
                    Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
                    At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

                    She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
                    Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
                    Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
                    I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
there is hope here            the morning sun
leaves loaves of warm light on the doorstep

after he left - leaving a letter –
she realised the room had no windows

the light claimed a green pear
as she drank sweet tea

at 10.09 she was required
to generate her own light:

*in Café Gigi she generated her own light
Learning about being self reliant.
Once there was a man who had only one friend.
Every day, just before the demise of a cyclamen orange burning ball on the horizon ~ he swam to the shore, waving with a magnificent tail, blowing bubbles and bundles of water and air into the wide open skies.

Under the darkening heavens, he sang the muffled song. Tempting his beloved. . .reaching magic, farther then any sonar's ability. Abnormal coldness froze Icelandic Beauty. But beneath the surface, life was warmer without wars. Dwarf seals were jumping into the laced ocean; trying to cry each time they were cut off the Earth's gravity.

This Mighty friend of an old man, was his only link to the global world. The man was old-fashioned; had no telecommunication facilities, his radio were gulls, stray cats, shepherd dogs and sheep on a green hill, behind his wooden hut.

Sometimes he looked over his shoulder, only to determine whether his elderly donkey is able to follow. . . or do they both need a little rest, just to postpone the books from the saddle for later and spread the beautifully ornamented Indian carpet under the great great grand olive tree ~ to take a reviving little nap in the shade.

When he woke up, the old man lit his wooden pipe, puffed few beautiful rings of indigo smoke, smirked to a buzzing bee and found that the air is still pure enough. The pressure was normal, the wind was playing with wave foams in the neighbouring bay.

Under the olives, hanging from the tree canopy, the quietness was fulfilling the old man's heart. Motionless peace was heard. Tranquility.
And the motion of a Humpback Whale. Leaving.
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic beauty
io sono ipso fact-o sad --
by the way - end's story goes. .
! right ? -  !we meet we part!
Don't plagiarise my lies,
get back to your roots and
lie to your own truths.
Mine are set to deceive you, to receive
you with arms open wide
don't plagiarise my lies
they're my own truths.

— The End —