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Are unrelated. Are giggling in the coffeshop. Are the mark of the gods' displeasure. Are due to natural causes. Are signing up for free email. Are preventable. Are quick to judge. Are the inevitable results of the prevailing lassitude. Are understood only by pundits. Are the province of lies, betrayals, and one-up-manship. Are, in and of themselves, traumatic. Are worth the extra cost. Are not miniature figures of plastic or wood. Are not responsible in any way for this software. Are not alone. Are angels on Easter. Are eating ham sandwiches. Are living in a computer simulation. Are being sought for questioning. Are incrementally accreting on the seabed. Are better off with free trade instead of tariffs. Are belong to us. Are into it. Are at times, accepting of the notion of transcendence. Are doing nationally and regionally well. Are continuous hits of the good idea. Are not the same as crime. Are the risks you'll have to take. posted by Reen at 4:15 PM | link| versify 0 comments
This chick's dividing; she'll confine The green flies with their cubist chaos into an adored feeling -- an end. How enjoyable her tumbling nerves are! She is very numerous: the future of the modern acquarium, trembling with internal light. Her thesaurus is no Less than the length of St. Peter's Basilica– Much speculation attends its stripes, The pressured chainlink of her lips, riddling "If Joseph Stalin left the Finland Station With his taxes sixteen years in arrears..." Then, she'll enter! Beloved of the crucial 18-24 demographic, smiling at the zenlike Distraction of her toes, painted like millefiori in the portentous space of the bedroom, backlit with angled reflections, watery, proofless phosphorus. There, in the double current Of a swift green line, she’ll return the severe scrape of her hair, describe a helix in the air, And in a short expanse of time, she'll float. posted by Reen at 2:59 PM | link| versify 0 comments
"Pretty girl, pretty girl," squawks the carekeeper's parrot as Calamity enters the museum. An exhibit of decadent Belgian Draftsmen – Felicien Rops' careful Lithographs of women copulating With devils; fantastic horns and Rolling eyes give way to More mundane anatomies. Discomfit is the one result Of staring into someone else's Fantasies. As she turns, A devil with a cowpoke's limp Mustache cries out, "Calamity! It is I, Deadwood Dick, Who holds a mortgage Of betrothal upon you!" Eyes slide shoulderward, Spurs collide with cold terrazzo. "Pretty girl, pretty girl," the parrot cries as she leaves. posted by Reen at 3:28 PM | link| versify 0 comments
posted by Reen at 2:13 PM | link| versify 0 comments
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