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| fig.098) from the last day ever |
What say the fallen in the
Vestibule, late to dinner
Warm as a garden chair
Yes to that, to tea and all
in the green as pale as peaches will get
Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet.
Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot.
Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss.
Fontso: Onion thugs, yellow shirts go in the dandelion pile. Lord stupid needs some lame, gimme legs shower me in change and even so. I am very. I am tom. I am tree and torn. Gimme art in the ancient sense. Give it to me all wet and weird.
Turd Grinder IV: His name is Ken and he was born in bloom. Mostly super-fun, he exists in a warm bubble of pleasure without any pants. He's privileged to have the world tied to his ankle. Cry for the billionth time. Cry scared and wet of pants.
Fontso: Your lovely wit, so cool and firm with its solid hue. Fresh June, as emphatic as it is impeccable still its legs are divided. Its will is capricious, lost in the scurry of weeks and myriad days. We should have a sandwich, some wine and a peach.
Turd Grinder IV: Mine is a heart that will die on a hard breath from exertion, ravaged and hot. It's time will stop, then no more commands or walks among pleasant trees in the valley it will earn nothing, not even for you.
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