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A bra waits for two moons. With child she suggests coffee & we go to where Christian hymns rot in the fog. My massive, gravely dreaming soul erupts into Sunday morning. She, for the sake of verisimilitude, glances at my hair, but forgetful, confused. My cock’s latent, guiding thread penetrates her inexperience. In Scandinavia a film is subdividing the Idea, while in France & London the odour of minor art is best thrown into the Channel. I abandoned the air to a bearded young man with penetrating eyes, while we had coffee anchored on the back lawn. Alert to the long evening, Stephanie jokes about it being 2 a.m. already. We fast from news & goodbyes. Pity the apparition lost from the ouija board. The dream fluttered from our, well, Christian sensibility. In the end, you & the rest of the world beguiled space from the indifferent stars. |
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