Scant and off-standish. I confuse for oscillation.
Busied with nothing, they are.
Ashade & alee, ally & algæ.
Predicated upon such a predicament.
Do what, now…
In/Transitive verbs. Inert momentum gave the other dog the upper leg.
I asked the CAT scan tech:
Can you have electric without magnetic?
He grinned; I passed out.
Suzie Q got graham crackers.
She can still write in cursive correct.
They do not teach it anymore.
Skills being disvalued.
After being discounted
Only creating future demand.
We are no orthodox sun-dwellers, dear.
Such is a sweet thrill.
Pity the would-be achievers; they will never enjoy their achievements
Until they learn to love strangers.
My apprehension now apprehended.
Eyes narrowed and lips
Pursed. Spawning focus.
Now, your lips purse, pucker up, as you
Awaken into a dream, falling into sleep.
My sweet Poliphilio.
Your own right hand pressed to your cheek. The scratchy friction of just a bit of beard to the back of your hand.
Your fingers curl slowly.
Except your pointer. It alone rests atop the left shoulder, too.
The bend of a knuckle, the one next to the nail.
Holding until held.
Pucker ampersand purse. Your lips. Again. Deeper you fall.
Twitching tap of that
Pointer fingertip to clavicle.
Across pectoral, sternum, and pectoral.
I start my next sentence but we idle in the æyther and I recognize.
In our idyll. The approach.
An image, but not one of whom I recognize.
Encircled and fuzzy in capture.
Encapturing the same arm
To the same shoulder.
It will not be long now. This will drop.
My brow and focus unfurrows and
Then uplifts in honest realization and disappointed resignation to the moment.
My eyes no longer two half moons.
Becoming oval saucers.
Serving platters for huge dinner parties,
Big enough to hold the head of John the Baptist (aka the Revelator).
And, at the feast,
I see the eyes and hear the hush of the hushed. They peer in on this meal with faces stoic and smug.
Held in their voluntary vanity
That holds their faces involuntarily so.
I asked the Old Man. The who no one ever done met:
Does your mountain happen to be Sugar or Magic?
Have you heard of The Mountains of Madness?
I nod. I know. I read and read. Now.
Knotting and loosening.
Hand in hand.
No juxtapositing but aligning and allying periodicities.
The sacrosanct of a reluctant headliner.
He said: now you know a secret; man can fail.
I said: that’s only a revelation to your men.
Morgan saw detail.
Meredith saw the night sky.
Rachel saw in between.
Portrait. Picture perfect.
One thought on “Descriptive Despotism.”
writtencasey: much to like here & now: particularly acing it with > ‘i see the eyes and hear the hush of the hushed. They peer in…’
&, of course, the rolling of the ampersand! nickreeves
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