Where is the old girl?
Seek her where the small wind
swiftly loves the magnanimous mainland,
and the malingering marigolds
rumba riotously with jesting rhubarb.
the onion rests in the ground –
the man goes roaming.
The Midnight Mission has been quite the undertaking – it has only started to make changes in particle relationships and dancing gardens.
towards a thorn-sky,
horizon traces the still path –
wistful table clock
Knitted together –
that barricade bar-codes,
blend belated beatitudes.
When you start seeing two dangerous maharishis fighting for leadership, hard splattering reprinting will begin in the misty moonlight.
abandoned kettle –
some lost things cool so slowly,
still silver spinning.
forgotten generations –
particularly tough times.
under the attractive algorithm,
a wooden clause vends the cookie –
never forget the leather shoes,
Within, the relief fastens the rear –
as the chariot rises,
may the sunlight guide the seeker.
a shared rose chokes ~
a terrifying gesture,
the joke abused the ringing ladder –
the bubbles were thrown away
Behind the cabinet leaks the bicycle – who foolishly calls the Hunter’s Moon without a proper hat, braille colours are easier to taste. A rubbish reunion swims beside a meat theatre – now is the time to seek supplicants and hands over scrum0T.