Our
I have no idea what I'm going to write
But the wings of fortune
Have proclaimed my fingers gods
And even now this line
Is manifested by the continual clicking of the brain
As pausation
And occurence
Meld like confused and watery metals
Like my own tricyle
Sliding down a dilated pole
Where my grandmother cowered around
Looking for her purse
And now the meanings,
The cymbals,
The catch-alls come shuddering around our...our...our...
**written for my own "Write Now!" contest...did not pause in typing until the last line...**
Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2009
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