to nothing

where are we going showing the slowing of the tides the rides the sides of the barn are torn are tarnished silvered in the gold light of the sun gleaming seemingly incessantly a mess of photons and protons and turn-ons and shut-offs and switches the witches of the valley into the barley barely battered in the beach blankets of the west wind.

what are we doing shoeing the horses of courses and forces gathering whither and thither in the evening air aired twice daily gaily on cable and satellite bright and bubbly doubly so as shown by the flecks of freckles in her face and red in her hair barely battering her side walls her cheeks her ears red in the sun beating beaming reaming her senses to the brink of the blink of an eye.

how is it the tit the twit out got when he bumbles stumbling through his courses as it courses and grows shows through the lows and highs it dangles predicately unprecedentedly for him a whim of youth and revolution evolution at an early age phaging at him.

when is it over the rover in the clover rolling and tolling and toiling the sweat gets unset from his frame she smiles and riles his senses more the battering the beating beams on him and the warmth creeps out keeps out gets out the juice the jolt the joint boy it's over and over again 'til it's right but quite she frowns down the clown browning and browbeating and overheating she's gone.

who is she that he should be so free to see the pre- and post the toast and roasting sun the heat the hotness the heaviness and gravity in the lavatory when he needs to finish the grimace the grazing the greasing in heaving breaths the breast the woman keeps him going and growing though low and no more the gore continues and retinues and fizzles to nothing.

25 jul 10