So the story goes: Glámis, the bride not to mention harpur his prophetic dream of lawson exhuming Sing to me of the woman, plaintive Muse, 1. sleepless thirty days: The smoke cleared, crawling the diary is a newstart fraud de art Man walks into bar. Once in a ruptured past before mutiny or Midnight's Children, Single-parented most of the time, it's a wonder Run! Run! Run run run run! For a safe climate! The scissors hissed. One heatwave day he throws me a sack/marked RetSenAdUn … And you were that paradox, Napoleon's plunder in arid cities we have read as syntax flooded streets, where does she stop It helps to have a pedigree at the moonlight splayed, shot on the dirt floor, silver and soft. In the gods Listen, o poet, to this marvel of the night. When he enters the town The valley of his youth is going slowly bald he was a beautiful thief in the night Joined to his guilt by bonds of matrimony Whose guts garland the dogs of Troy / Not Patroclus' but we must feel there is something amiss (BandAid Medical 422.02) The arrival of the monsoon― There once was a man who lived in a house money put aside for money will money into money These curtains, how they fluttered like wings. the period of doubt They all agreed. A kite was he My head spins the audacity of coming so close to the Gods!
14 December 2009