My brushes with decadent company
kep me spinning to the edges;
alls I could feel was stomach punches.
All the fine living in the balconies,
Pearl rings on gloves perched at brass
railings, made time reach like a feather bed.
Finely now change has found a patteren,
jarring as a cart trip on wheels squared,
with the high points blunted, knowing yor
No where, and are traveling there.
You see faces peering over and viewing
your spin like a weather cock or crucifix
In a sunk diorama of storytime ruin: a
damasela's eyes pecked out as the Failed
Shepherdess, calcified, weeps in her coats.
Quietly now it's the engine I question, the
spark that was supposed to be pushed along
to regenerations of florid qualms and spies.
How can a squiggle in a dish be intensified
by anyone's cynical easy moonlit labors
if she too is powered by a wayward kernel?
Connie, in retrospection
Contextual Detours
2 hours ago