Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Coop Lee Jun 2014
to the young privateer.
the captain kidd & his bought n’ taut gang of holy bluffs.
they bribe and imbibe and swoon on the dock-way looking for a quest or two or three
to dream and bury their doubloons in island guts like little mysteries. little sundowns
over a rixdollar indian ocean.
let them take a turn.
destined to mutate from private to pirate, the kidd, like blackened rotten wood.
******* frigates.

the ship:
with her bob and sway. she is, the adventure.
& her song is calling out for a rapturous few,
for men ready to die on the highwater mark by glory or fire or dead glorious sun.
so they put her brass and bough to seafaring days,
the sweet galleon, barely wet, yet
completely riffed to voyage.
she is
from the shores of london. built. designed to kick 14 knots under a full sail blast.
& she will bite.

she’s in calm waters.
the kidd savvy toothed and butterscotched, he awaits the big show,
engorged to set forth the play like wily ocean dervish &
they do.
they do proceed with benefactors coined and crunched on postulations of pirate death &
pirate gold. reclaimed honor as they say. the hunt for pirate teeth.

& with official pass and parchment, high-throne approved,
king ***** III stamp & sealed,
this voyage is.
this voyage is and forever was, hereby charted, to recover said stolen goods.
to reclaim thy warrior vanity &/or vengeance.
to noble this **** with pinched loaf, like now.
set sail. now.
1696.

“**** them navy yachts at greenwich, the thames be ours, boys.”
slap *** and flick thumb toward those armada sons,
& as tribute
smoke balsam herbs on the starboard side for the mother she and the father be.
but for this slight,
this dishonorable silly ****,
one third of adventure’s men are pressed into service of the crown.

[continue.]

the adventuresome few, petty crew and crows.
steal the heart and mother-meat of a french ship. steal everything onboard.
steal the ship itself.
& on her way to new york, new boon, pure and entered into the new world.  
there are new men bought in the american port,
good men and odd men of long criminal legacy.
a small black vicious quartermaster. he’ll do.
a murderous preacher gripped by stars and celestial patterns. he speaks spanish. he’ll do.
another type of holy man and a wild drinker too, embattled by demons on the port side. sure.
plus the dock-boys destined to **** for fruits of exploration.
this is the way of the son of a gun.

the boatmen jockeyed. she is
the adventure
prancing the vertebrae of atlantic and beyond. cape of good hope, she
breathes easy out here on the wide tide and float.
out here on the vast blue this. she
evolves
out here. loves out here.

pirates.
the hunt for pirates or the lack thereof. she leaks.
she rasps into the years on. and on.
the kaleidoscope hallucinations of sun and moon, sun and moon, and moon and sun
forever.
the strait of bab-el-mandeb.
& there
she plunges into darkness, into the stars seen from and through a periscope formed
by ancient hominid lineage.
seen but untouched,
in dreams. the kidd, reluctantly lime, admits to his madness.
madagascar.

malaria and cholera and hell break the boat by the throat.
& thrash.
to be organic is to be ruled by a shadow, or entropy.
the mouth of a red sea.
one third of the men will die here.
simply as insects crushed and brushed off deck and into to her great spate of agua,
the mother gush.
her earth.
body.
father,
hear his whispers in the mirage.
the ancient mariner, the ancient holy ghost riming down there.

in destitution.
in a rough and soggy life squeezed and making men weird or violent or both be ******.
the kidd goes cold to hot sweating noxious.
turns pirate himself
out of sheer hunger.
out of sheer need to eat.
sets the boys like dogs upon a frigate of east india company men,
or french *****. either/or/or/either/or.
he & the boys are in a madness swirl of sun and heavy guts.
cuts to spill blood
or gold. this tender bit.
lip bit
& tested.

captain kidd fractures the skull of a deckhand named moore,
for bad attitude and giggles. moore gets death.
chisel on the deck.
& to think we are all troubled by some primal trauma.
some dumb thing called death, that is.
men starving, men dying, men falling in the vast black that is that eternal void.
dream of women and riches in the meantime.
fortunes.
1698.

savage kidd, cool kidd, cool spit
off the edge. to think of the once soulful idea of these paradise days
& trip.
savage to cool.
the two divine modes of a survived man.
a ghoul man, or aging man.
& to keep control of his crew kidd sets them upon the quedagh merchant;
a 400 ton armenian hulk chalk full of gold, silver, satins, and muslin. ‘tis *****.
renames her: the adventure prize.

madness quenched for now.
charmed for now
& on the horizon are fragrant times. blissful distance.
but robert culliford,
with his mocha frigate. this man, this suave pirate lord, his vengeance act.
he had stolen kidd’s ship years back, &
the captain opts to cut his throat.
take the mocha.
keep calm & carry on.
to paradise.
to dream of her cool warm beaches and fruit forever, peacefully thinking.
so that night they two drink together in good health, and in the morning
most of the men defect to this other man, this other ship, culliford.
other dream,
other captain of true buccaneer effect.
act 3:

13 remain in the galley firm.
this is the house adventure.
& she is burnt alive three days later for rot and ill repair.
but she was fun,
& a *****.
a stitch of old woodwork given-in
& crackling with the eyes of her crew seen in fire.

kidd steps the pond to caribbean times with the adventure prize, toad toxins
& high on the jungled shore.
he trades that colossus, flips her for a sloop and seven little chests of gold.
little bellies.
the island-gut doubloons to bury.
dream, remember?

but the men-of-war are after him now. the privateers & hunters & devil’s dogs.
the men he once was.
men of marked death.
& he is now some pirate, some forthright bandit
settled to **** or be killed.
some sad kid.

first: buries that treasure up the coast of america.
oak island rig.
cherry rocks of the maine bank and *****-trapped pit.
the hunted.
they catch him on an inlet ****, and sail back
to london to be tried for crimes against the crown.
the high court of admirality.
1701.

they hoist and gibbet his body with worn chains above the river.
not for piracy, but for ******.
the ****** of that strange deckhand moore and his giggle.
kidd’s bones
suspended there for three or more years at the mouth of the thames,
as warning
to the perverse travails of a criminal lifestyle on the highwater pond.
the odd inkwell  Jul 2010
naughty
the odd inkwell Jul 2010
wrinkles in muslin
she tries to hide
her mischief
haiku
Please stop by theoddinkwell.com for more of my work
Shofi Ahmed Dec 2021
The day on a high
reaches the peak
over the pyramid.
Shrouded in twilight
now tucked in light
pushes the envelope.
The whole panache of stars
came out in the pitch dark.
The North Star is on the way
oh do me a favour
I will tell you why.

Veil the angle of dawn
in the black shades of the night.
There are dark caves
even inside the pyramid
scientists, trained eyes
yet to tread on that way.

Put on it only an instance of your kohl
the daylight is already a burnt mole.
Light in the wrap in the night
your muslin veiled silken moonlight
is enough to find the tuberose’s earth.

If the tucked away sun crops up
once again over the morning’s rose petals.
Again it will dive deep into the angle
after an angle in the black hole of the night.
A far cry from the glowing firefly
eyeing blindfolded behind the moon
perfectly beyond every looking star.
Until the master arts in silk black finds the true pencil
not in visualising but catching the views of the sunrise
through the lens of the rose pollens’ kohl-eyes.
Janette Sep 2012
Hush, my heart, for something is done...




Watch for the night
to lay our vows
over the wild parable of gardens
and over the wet lessons of the moon,
that give us prophecy in whispers
of dream, elope, and leave,
the absence of still rooms,
soothing, the svelte lips
descending upon my neck
in the seance of evening,
you soak calla lilies
of our red earth oils
and ***,
and with them
draw me a nuptial bath,

unbind the taupe soles
I have kept with the grace
of a concubine, sold
into the dark alcoves,
beyond the value of reticence,
you find me in rainstorms,
and wrap me in the flesh

and fabric of your hands,
behind silk walls,
with the ardour of Rapunzel's deliverance,
let down over the clavicles,
as fists unclench
in their exhaustion,

baby roses quiver this night, I keep
in pecan skin and votive eyes,
dip the Fahrenheit of your glance,
as it strays over my lips, your tongue
whips of mustard weeds,
seed your voice, sinks
into the garden's cleavage

as its lit pink tapers
spill their desperate midnights
and abandoned mornings,

ache under the arthritic, thick cedar
addictions to the milkflower
of a presence painted in clay glyphs,
stay the sinew and ******
of my body, a madrigal
upon our Indian Summer bed,

bled in a chorus of cicadas....

let the hymn be heard
over all these broken vows
and shattered pledges, speak
from the ruined marriage of flesh,
as I kneel in our earth,
in the sere, and seek in myself
that measure of peace, I know
is not there, without you,

to writhe in the throes
of exquisite anguish,

I give

my mouth in dream,
between your thighs
where the river runs fierce,
under the lithe sapling root
of my tongue, as it runs
the swift currents
and golden eddies
of inebriate skin, puckers
over the Inulin of the ****
and begins its swelling,
down the trellis of bones,
and the ******* of limbs
beneath the black monsoon
of the soul, as it perishes

in the engorged maw
of the split body, blades
of shoulders, soaked in the myrrh
of our rapture, fading
lifelines engraved on the back
of the hand you hold soft,
against me,

as my throat buries its moan
swallowed by your own, for solely
in you is it silenced, quelled
by the swells of song
you reign in the jugular
and soothe, a balm
for all my body, burning

its defiance, taken
to the limits of this,
our savage garden,
in the pilgrimage
to such lavish boundaries,
held abeyant, the cadence
of candles and solemn vows
sound the rhythm of our slow deaths,
writ in the lush psalm of the handsome earth,

our love, engulfed
in the wells of a sole desire,
I give you this,
my body's silkwhite harvest of faith,
driven fast with nails

into the exquisite wrists of the Christflesh,
shivering under the furtive delirium
of these, our fevers,
severed from body to body: twain,
that is now one ardent sorrow of flesh,
this is my body,
this is my blood,

I have given,
vows to bind our words, my love,
to the vigilance of night, that lives
and dies with the fall and rise of you breath,
one muslin depth,
relinquished to the white earth,
over an eternity of deliverance...
WS Warner Feb 2012
Underneath the anger, there are tears. Beneath the fury, there is hurt, a river
of affliction - the day that possibility evaporated. I knew, the moment
it was gone. Telos obscured, like a mist, had left me.

Frost in February, morning at the local coffee house, perseverating, sedate
in privatized, cogitations - certainty dissolves into irony, the transient
collective with predictable cadence and singular objective. Borrowed
energies - preferred anesthetic in defiance of the placid, quotidian horror.

Angst wrapped in skin, clothed in remorse, like a muslin coat unable
to keep me warm, the palette of truculence, dislocated savant,
with guarded aversion - faces enucleating in tacit harmony, the muted tragedy
of the forgotten.

Yoked, the metaphorical satchel, freighted with the sentient debris, sifting
the fuckage, memoirs of failure, privation of venture and honor, objectified as
mere portent. [Existence] - the daily riot, becomes the necessary crucible.

Dissonance and detachment resonate the cultural banality, [being] displaced
by icon; [branding], ideas about ideas, life several times removed,
emblem over essence.

Existential renegade, exploiting the counter intuitive, the paradigmatic prodigal,
favor squandered, in the absonant passage, bearing fruit of the undone.

Bones of contention lament, interminably, like a false friend, present in absence,
perceived in the lack, subtraction, slip-stream - the disheveled
palaver of the broken.

Acutely self referential, misery enfleshed, its own reward, a post-war
discontent inhabiting sorrow, compressed and narrow, begetting
apathy in springtime.

Commodity of youth, the currency of beauty -permuted, commerce of the
ethereal and diaphanous. Human caprice, post-modern fog,
the flattened self,
the enemy of us is us, drowning in the decorum of narcissism.
the fattened calf,
immolating on the sword of autonomy.

Recycled grief, a recursive loop of gestating thoughts, marinating fluidly
within the interpretive grid. Confessional cyber community - exposed wounds
and concrete suffering, abstracted from virtual solidarity, refracted through a
reductive sentimentality, maybe they will ‘like’ it.

Iconoclast in exile, inhaling the incense of barrenness , surrounded by synoptic
drivel in understated - present tenses - alight in the now, axial axioms of the privileged,
who genuflect to the god of unfettered freedom.

Peripatetic intervals of isolation, self-imposed, hidden in a sanctuary of derision,
colliding with immutable otherness , the waters of chaos, calm.
The proleptic display, announcing eschatology. An ancient text written on the interior
expressed in myth and narrative the courier. The carnal and cerebral
arise, rightly flourishing.

Sense thresholds stirring, surprise and turbulence, reverberations of altered
domains merging - the temporal and ubiquity, the indissolubly resplendent
inversion - the invisible made visible. Opaque intrigues subsumed into the
balm of reconciliation - the first shall be last…

©2012 W.S. Warner
Fahredin Shehu Apr 2012
Black
Empty cans
No liquid evaporated
In the air full of pride
Polluted grains of soul
Lost their consistency
Pure fluids of light
Erupts as marshmallow bombs
Death squad penetrates deeply
Aiming to meet Anubis
A Tsunami whirled its wish
Passion and glutton declared independence
The dream of becoming a parallel nation
To co-habit with leukemia of creativity
A *** drive 4×4 retired
A crippled veteran of passion
Bags for the mercy of soulless utilitarian army of human entity
Better said plankton a ****-plankton of miserable creatures
Even worms and larva are disgusted by our hatred
*****, a skunk of fear
An eclipse of love that spans for ages
From birth to death
A spectrum displays its ripeness
******* liberty as blast
A dazzling dance of shaped and amoeboid forms of manifestation
Truth
Bitter the honey with suffer
Powder a chamomile with royal jelly and ginseng
All of sudden a wind blows
Spores of the old pines
White
The soul of parallel nation of Angeloid
Is striving pleasure of life?
Lives now
Perpetually woofs a rainbow muslin with
the divine light
Inter-woofed dress
Newborn immaculate fellows
Perfuming
Oh those smell of paradise
Mint, Neroli, Oakmoss, Amber
A bouquet of divine pleasure
And Acacia kissed by a queen bee
Yes the queen of Enneagram
Of course
The work produces sweet essences
Oh Sarmouni of our Millennia
Melt the cataract-ic lance so they may see the beauty
Heal the flu so they may smell fresh ozone
A charged circle of light and love
Overwhelm
Remove the pulp from the reed
So may divine tune perform light?
Tao
May be your torchbearer
In the dark valley and by then you may
see a spectrum
That encircles an infant fear
For an eternal life
Yet I kiss that that time sequence
Where Jin and Jang harmoniously co-habit
I a Feng Shui of Love
Defragmenter of hate’s files
Zipper of dark matrixes
Arranger
So you may know they do exists
So you try them in order to enjoy the sweetness
of life’s honey
In this porcelain valley
Where goodness and mischief
Hand in hand are gliding furiously
Alas pure the morning with dew of love
Oxidize hate with apple vinegar
Sing to celebrate both solstices and have a cup of vine
That swoon you
That filters all starry
Cells of brain and ganglia
Perfume her navel with rosewater and kiss, kiss, kiss
Do a divine Tantra
With all visible and invisible and semi-visible spirits
Kiss topaz of her eyes
Kiss ruby of her heart
Kiss diamond of her nail
Kiss cooper of her feet ankle
Kiss jade of her bones
Kiss sapphire of her cells
And a flame-y waterfall of hair
And a silky *****…
Oh…kiss and kiss and kiss whatever belongs to her
Make her a necklace
With your purest and noblest spermatozoids
Then call her as you wish
Wisdom, Hikkmah, Sophia
Or simply Goddess that makes you Angeloid.
—-
Arabic for wisdom, we disregard language we are concentrated
on substance on quint essence
Greek for wisdom
Logan Robertson Mar 2019
The eye of the hurricane
Swept through a country side
Not batting an eye
All those in it's path perish
A mosque, a person, a Muslin
Another, another, another
Until 49 were gunned down
Killed
Executed
And many more injured
Scarred forever
in·dis·crim·i·nate·ly
A finger on a trigger
Held steady
Unmercifully
Picking targets
To cries and screams
With no regard for life
Only for the shooter
To make a name for himself
His message board
His manifesto
His hate of immigrants
Muslims
Leaving in it's path
Bloodshed
A country's darkest day
His infamy
Who is this individual
The eye of the hurricane
Sitting in the middle
Teetering to the right
An extremist
Category of the worst kind
A patch of ******
Sitting in his landscape
Of his sunken mind
Incarceration
Laughing, laughing, laughing
Today, today, today
And this was his trigger
His devil
His dialogue
Today he spoke
Another, another, another
To cries
That echo
Forever
Long after the hurricane
Loses its tail
This makes me sick
I look up in the sky and ask why

Logan Robertson

3/15/2019
My heart goes out to the victims, a group of Muslims, at a prayer service and to all those affected. It's worst than the darkest day when seeds of this disgrace keep replanting and soiling the good landscape, Earth and Mankind.
K Balachandran Mar 2014
Mist told me in her vaporous touch
"Let me dress you in my fine muslin clothes,
though you may find it a cold comfort
my love will endure till sun drives me away"

And sun, strode in donning his warm golden gown,
splashing his sunny voice, he announces,
"Purple, red, golden yellow, as time moves,
choices you have, folks, till i go back with my stock,
mine are silk, the purest for you to luxuriate
unlike with others, my love for planet earth,
is something never fully told, whoever does it "

Ah, then comes the lady clad in sensual black,
with her one powerful color that makes,
none stand out in the line, all are equal in her bed,
dress she gives you have to accept,no choice there,
somnambulist deem it a privilege  wearing it,
those ones that vanish, seek out her winged dress.
I

There was an ancient City, stricken down
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day
They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,
And danced the night away.

I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:
They pointed to a building gray and tall,
And hoarsely answered "Step inside, my lad,
And then you'll see it all."

Yet what are all such gaieties to me
Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?

x*x + 7x + 53 = 11/3

But something whispered "It will soon be done:
Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:
Endure with patience the distasteful fun
For just a little while!"

A change came o'er my Vision - it was night:
We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:
The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:
The chariots whirled along.

Within a marble hall a river ran -
A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:
And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her wrath;

And here one offered to a thirsty fair
(His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there were many there),
A tooth-ache in each spoonful.

There comes a happy pause, for human strength
Will not endure to dance without cessation;
And every one must reach the point at length
Of absolute prostration.

At such a moment ladies learn to give,
To partners who would urge them over-much,
A flat and yet decided negative -
Photographers love such.

There comes a welcome summons - hope revives,
And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:
Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives
Dispense the tongue and chicken.

Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:
And all is tangled talk and mazy motion -
Much like a waving field of golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.

And thus they give the time, that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and floors.

And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,
That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.

How late it grows! The hour is surely past
That should have warned us with its double knock?
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last -
"Oh, Uncle, what's o'clock?"

The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.
It MAY mean much, but how is one to know?
He opens his mouth - yet out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.

II

Empress of Art, for thee I twine
This wreath with all too slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each halting line,
And for the deed accept the will!

O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,
Parting, like Death's cold river, souls that love?
Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,
By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?

And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,
Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!

But all is lost: that mighty mind o'erthrown,
Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!
"Doubt that the stars are fire," so runs his moan,
"Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!"

A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire
Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!
And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?
And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?

Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways
And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the appointed days,
And weep away the leaden-footed hours.

III.

The air is bright with hues of light
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there's an end to mirth and play.
Ah, well-a-day

Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and gray.
Ah, well-a-day!

O fair cold face! O form of grace,
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
"Leave us not thus!" we fondly pray.
"We cannot let thee pass away!"
Ah, well-a-day!

IV.

My First is singular at best:
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the pluralest -
So plural-plural, I protest
It scarcely can be reckoned!

My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd
And plausible deceivers.

My First to get at wisdom tries -
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revered as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.

My First is ageing day by day:
My Second's age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended.

My Whole? I need a poet's pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men -
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes -

A flashing light - a fleeting shade -
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made
Or wit devised! Go, seek HER aid,
If you would read my riddle!
The curtain frays at the edges
Unwinds, disobedient
Only to reveal
No bed (where one should be)

Dainty white muslin
Conflicted, floats
Away from the pane
More like a halo (than a shroud)

Here, in the cage of your mind,
Lies a mandolin
Hollow (with no music in its heart)

Towards another window
Its brother may lie
Born of nothing (but of itself)
A loose translation of Mallarmé's Un dentelle s'abolit. It's near impossible to capture every aspect of the original French poem, so I've opted for the a simple that expresses my personal take on the poem whilst still be as faithful as possible to the imagery of the original.
Àŧùl Jan 2018
If Superman farts
And
His cape is set afloat
Then it is appropriate
For Indians to sing
The retro Bollywood
Peppy number:
"Hawa Mein Udta Jaaye
Tera Laal Dupatta Malmal Ka
** Tera Laal Dupatta Malmal Ka!
** Ji! ** Ji!"


As the song means:
*"It flutters in the wind,
Your red muslin scarf,
Oh your red muslin scarf!
Oh yeah! Oh yeah!!"
Inspired by an Indian Hindi language joke

My HP Poem #1695
©Atul Kaushal
278

A shady friend—for Torrid days—
Is easier to find—
Than one of higher temperature
For Frigid—hour of Mind—

The Vane a little to the East—
Scares Muslin souls—away—
If Broadcloth Hearts are firmer—
Than those of Organdy—

Who is to blame? The Weaver?
Ah, the bewildering thread!
The Tapestries of Paradise
So notelessly—are made!
Martin Narrod Dec 2018
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Thought circles

— The End —