Over this geology

Ground of becoming is her nearest fit. Get comin 'g to be. not the verb red flesh. but wretch raid byecoming. O it's that? well, so they say. what say if Anti cant be her thousandth plateau?

Over this geology you're frost.
tear and peak. laminate and
along the lip of your curled woof
percolate. shimmy 'down' a forest foot.
to gleam ______________

sHingle or single muttering she. con-versing aversing her angle of foot. is that foot ankle or foot iamblichus?

it's her midnight halt. Sip of water in the coarse desert. her mouth is clapped by the acrid taste .

Burnous hipped she dons "suddenly" "rarely" her hilt made metaphor by her hip.

Slip Ahoy! my lovelies! bale away!
Boom and Boom . its starboard to cutter.

Come in , my troupe. Bands and butter. Comeuppance and puppeters. Round the blather'd moon. A fife to cropping nights. This way we see the cymbals sun.

Reservation blues: why would a man be a doctor when he could be a nurse? A nurse to 'cool her brow' her cooking fetch a gear on the summer sun.



your blog our many burrows and rhizomatic blogcomings.

Mona' s horn are varied shamanistic crow. Carrying over sun. Hate. but not hatted. by its puissance she sings the sun. repertitioning her petition. Beseech the beech. What fleece tears the coat she bear. She bear grizzly temporary maids huffed by cunning stowaways round her port. Not starboard to her thinged tip. Repeat. Repeat. Repear, shaving around the apple peel.

recoming forivernthither her herd's cambered its fennel.


where id go?

is that t[here]?

like she said bringing hope home to the soldiers
attendants warrior and quacky cure.

it shamble the have with you legged to its wain.

as language freaks so shall it respite.

nota shrinking bee
but a mellowing perch....

And so Mona Jill's rested on her first creation bay.

is that hear?

where id go? it went here is that hear?


you ,might say

Mona's a low rider. Casting the die of many fires. When her heart hammer. Her feet shift. it's like night wishes her beat rhythm. So she go and come around the circle of flowery beflowered harbours. Or closer to something like her loving flavour. A fallow field, she's rhumbaed the buttocks of numerous girls. her cardinal number is love. So she come. As wheat rumpled and reeling her antiplatonic fury. No one wearing her glove, can imagine. A error is a period in thyme. Not the dimple of a city smile

but a personal edition, her book is volume fulsomefurling. she's the long block at the pass. Where no metaphysicals go. she wears her socks knee high. this way she knows where she is . Ugly not ugly she's hoofed to any beat, and hooey to go.

after any pile of dragging wood, she's lumber to her billow, bidden to the green budding . of spring's lace time .

this don't make her rare, but her brogue's a tarnished thing pillowing history's own invention.
she 's got her hat on sideway.

Does that invent her contraband or make her a lunatic on the decking?
is it port to her stern or stem to her starboard.
No one knowing can say not even her avon scented lake. or brooked by no command she's lieutenant to her army. Private becoming the cocky occasional face she darns with the wool of any favour.
Granted or not, she's gotta bear pillows where a lover's head migth have reposed.
So her low rider
her long back

come better as she's silver to her gold, and amplitude mapped to her trace.


A boxer's shorts would do!
but she wont wear them or thongs or whale tails. So she's rugby to her tournament detoured by her furlough pity to passing emenders and stranger alike. What happens then to the shadows of the bird? She 's grease to her king and thigh willow to her paving.
This way her breast is calm.

And she's god to god and woman to every other becoming. her sassy navy shirt and all.