Saturday, July 26, 2014

Memories





                 
                  It was Wordsworth who watched the pebble 
                  Circled back to the edge of the Pond.
                  Our eating, our movements take us back. 
                  Reminding of our past
               
                
                   She laid there comatose,  Her tit dry.
                   Who was that? My
                   Tortured movements.
                   Kill that blob of fat.
         .
                  
                

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