He Is TotallyKen Rumble
She feels as much as dances, a Coptic step without nails, cerulean revelations with moons painted flamingo, the painted snake and the choirboy who loved the way the loft kept them all together. Sandwich bread, hold the mustard, mayo both sides: a treaty between faces – the dough was always good for weddings or funerals: shaking the chimes, lighting the incense, desert early in the course. Flow down and around – pool now: there’s no of course only persistence. The way wind never tires, has no direction, finds you by the gazebo asking for foccacia with tomato. The jitterbug, yes, but never the hulapopper: squeak in before her card is full. What the fish always need, what they say – don’t ask them to speak: you already know.
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