Perfume Loring…. (Prose)

I.

Perfume loring, turning, hedged to the twitching, to the crying moon like sutler, silk drowns muses flesh and bone, stitches on fatty quilts, wanting warmth, muttering, muttering through whispers, begged by praying hands,

I hate this place.

Promise like a shadow pecked against the incant, restores like Lazarus. Crypts cites damaged; Similar to la mausoleum, lowering the prayer, but it is before sleep, floating like seine.

II.

Shadowed, stirring, crucifying darkness overlaps, and it makes me shiver, shiver, as the rain opens its mouth; I hear sounds that will make me go deaf by midnight, and as the boy sits down across, he parts his lips and buries his head down, eating Mexican food.

The moon falls flat, a bit bitter with buttery streaks like a good loaf on Christmas. Yellowing flutters pool as they curl onto a tray of luminescent white,

scintillating by the keys on the piano.

III.

I’m quiet as I sit back carelessly; I place a look to the man, miming in his gig-bag, as a boy places their dirtied soles on mine, careless thing, careless, careless, ceaseless, will it stop? Please take your shoes off my case. Look and don’t speak. Whispers like a crimson sea, no deep puddles, valleys of salt, spent territorial on the account of regret, claiming absolutely nothing had, rots slowly, enlightening during murals and murals of a remembered exposè

I’m tired.

IV.

The florid moon shimmers across, and I breathe, that pang parted as a broken dream, parted by the breath of midnight fog, lathered with dialect, the heaps of dark like London…

The moon sinks into the paradox of disturbed waters, swaying, cradling the terror of wind before the storm,

Opposed to the sea, shone of moonlight by the lake, simmering with an arched viola string, and maddened by the virgin shroud of rain, restores like the Antares,

La memory.

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