embellished and sacrificial

to the metaphoric bone

see saw reflections

billowing surfaces

beneath still dignity

sharpened the true intent

of what comes around

sell sold sycamore syrup

trumpet sealed wax on players

it is a matter of screening

screaming into your material

and make the best of it

before conscious air

runs out in cold December

she listened to dead sea cod

in the empty aftersmirk

of fetid  afterlife calling

at inconvenience

it makes no difference

I promised

laughing out loud

oral edifices are smoke

in the eye of stolen hear so

little help really

in the Louvre of display

where checkered liners

run the distance

for a small rotten fee