January (adult language)
This grey morning, its winter grass hairy as an old whore's lip, and chilly as a dead cunt stares at me, and I stare back. It sees my seed of myth wedged in its crevasse of sodless rock; I see its proferred plate of naked souls taken (like a good host) from the shelf of time for my consumption, condiments rolled in sugar, including Balzac, and dark Alice. Looming in my path, now, seed pods clinging to the lifeless branch, rumor of promise, debunked. Written January 7th, 2002 © on Jan 07 2002 08:53 AM PST, Carole Dudley 0 • 18 • 1
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"This grey morning, its winter grass..."