glass eyed Mona ~

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Jill living in the bottom she chew. She mark the page of its perforated edge. This has has passed the razor, splintering its quiet . Not Grecian but urged by fancy she's legal tender to her era. Her drive's not subject or object but partial to her organ, If particles artfully consider the winding control of breezes shes semi-wise to her pattern. But its timbre is something contrived, her voice, the rage of ancient way and reverent today. She's past her bottle keening along her idiom not forth in line but west to her always gang of pretend.

In preening her pert and pretty way, her arse's queen to gods. She has every geology down fat! She's weared them all to hide! and she don't mean embyronic leather !~.


In the white tower she's held hang with king and sipping prince her pince-nez glinting off shadowing eye. At the opera it's lorgnettes for a dapper vignette of amour and history as seen in the 18 the century, and the population doubles. Her wheat is tarry to her folio favour. A soughing prairie afternoon.

Mona's gaff is trouble by nobody. If she has troubles they're visitors in the pane of mirrored hand and paper to screen her calling.



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Mona's always worked at radio

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