Thursday, May 5, 2011


In your mouth, feel. Disturbing, voluptuous. First, sighing s, a consonant masked in vowel, the name Esmé you’d think somewhere wears sleeves of lace in Oscar Wilde — but nowhere does. The sumptuous, slow shift, your s sneering into a kiss of ch; Anne hears out loathed Gloucester, and though he has but freshly had her husband slain, he wins her. (Was ever woman in this humour woo’d?) Brownies follow a walnut-blue cheeseburger, rare, with silky onions winning over caramel. Airily, it’s over. Ta! We’re history. We’ve passed the river’s silt of moods. The ocean sways in subtle breeze.


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