The Futurist

Unpunctuating , fear will slice the time, and you will be a sitting duck in the hands of brutal clock. Drink, Apollo, with round eyes and limbless torso. He walks on the curves, reciting mantras. There was intrigue and blackmail in return for not telling the indiscretion of celibates. A damp squib. There was lot of hissing sound, but no explosion. Procreatiom will stop without fire. Wants to return to pines. The cones, the pricks and swaying hips of splendid suggestion. Satish Verma