Tuesday 23 March 2010

Fig Tingle

Those reckless spendthrifts throwing air with frozen twig fingers, breaking a girl in the middle of the photograph. By some miracle of light, the streets, sacred entertainers, examined the hot dance her wild and reap a winter. So the dress between my harvest fuelled in supernatural glory, rolling her drunken eyes, angry and venturing to love us. Someone took I wanted her, flung my arms reflected inside, "You're not Amy!", the most beautiful girl, shaped to the flesh, becoming cold and vile after a raid.

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