tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254489460896736407.post-62488076467540036802008-01-15T12:55:00.001-08:002008-01-15T12:55:27.893-08:00Mary Lou The suburbs overflow lonely murkiness in the streets around. claustrophobic the city's shutting shop closing its book the sky's falling and the clouds and clocks. strange for me but there's still time in the church of know secretly murmuring in all of the lights like an uninvited guest. Quiz me in the confessional if you'd like, I've memorized the cursive prayer of your thighs surrounding me. If only I could be the foreign groove your words speak.<BR><BR> nothing to do. it's up to you. good morning. nothing to say. what a day. it's boring. no one to love, a lover. no one to fuck, a fucker. no limbs to drip a droplet. no hope to watch a starlet. awe. shit. you don't. fit. my skit. lick. clit.<BR><BR> if she was what i hope she might be i'd read the starlet's claustrophobic book in cursive awe. she'd like to fuck in the confessional and would i? of course if reality might be prayer of her thighs murmuring cloudy vespers my way. a lover is an occupational hazard i'd do spewing foreign groove and shit fit 'cuz clit. when i wrestle with subtitles i almost always come out looking like a buffoon. somebody skill me or...<BR><BR> let me go back to trader joe's. pick up. mini tacos. and her skirt. and narrate. the path. from thigh to thigh. and formulate. wriggle. on the wall. pinned and wriggling. and embedding. a goddamned narrative. inside her. like i tried to. in the pews. her name's mary lou. i fell to her earth. get out of my head. all of you.Andrew Lundwallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11397237013923147500noreply@blogger.com