immediate prose experiment

Jul 12, 2008 - 21:59 PM PST

Big like the sweet gas ryhtms, like the apple core plan,
like the zygote prematura memory to be uncovered, upon request.
The story grew wanton, took over the palace,
antler tine motifs ravaged a straw roof,
thatch rain fell, trampled so ecstatic
in the sweet fuck rythm, born with it.
We'll paint the bodies cryptic, style penned
dripped, the seventh star burnt hazel
during the seventh month, that on this our mount
agape, across thigh and breast one message
will shine ecru filtered, the word my darling.
And the oddest nostalgia agreed on the never,
forever dark familiarity of the gifted,
sight bearing, hairless, perfumed, perfect ones
fly to the mountains and the clouds and the stars
where giants flayed survivorship, the idea.

-smd, 2008