Selection From My New Novel
Apostrophe in time. Mixes twenty foot differences between mice and men. They all fail. But the failure is only a thought a big lie. The fun now is the brow of the valley under Universal,
stars is the quiver of virgin blossoms. Untold tales of taxidermy of humans. Oh Morton, what happened?
I see you swimming, sorrow sucking you through to the stacks of a library in Dante’s Inferno.
No place to be for a man of you great disposition, interpretations of a fourth dimension.
Four inceptions of Christ. Fourth inception of the days of anguish.
Languish in language and learn to learn before learning obsolete standards learn to kill you.
Linguistic suicide imbedded in society.social leapfrogs.
Obnoxious butterflies LEARN. Morton where? Are you? Who is? I want, no,
I yearn for justice days of pleasure, of bountiful journeys to distant mind sets.
Eating jollity, consuming foreign fingers to be intoxicated with race and jest.
Just cause is NOT enough. Powdered power, outage of time. A pill of sensitivity.
Now SHE blooms, like England, like death, time, ANYTHING.
She leaves earth including me and I fall into this pit, this chamber of blame, insolence and filth.
Perturbed, perturbed, perturbed to the enth degree.
her, her, this love, this life, this Christmas eve is playful.
Playful of POWER. “it is NOT YOUR FAULT.”
Is what I tell her. I tell her listen, listen, listen, listen, listen to, not me.
But any authority that is NOT. Write down books and books of blasphemy, blasphemy.
Any authority that is NOT. Yes. Not.
Copyright © W. Hunt | Year Posted 2014
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