After Thursdays By Sandy Florian, originally posted by her on Aug 2, 2007
Fridays
By Jennifer K Dick
5 Oct 2007:
its like bewildered widened wakening to the blank lack of milk in the caffeinated beverage unmurkily re reflecting black back at’cha, atta girl, goin’ get ‘em she’s right round the bend of the blizzard this buzzard pecked bleak beaker of “what cha drinkin’ tonight Sal? sale? Sarah? Sonia?” shrill seal her back into the mire, my eyes stealing a thrill shut-eyed momentaneous blinking until I think it is mid afternoon, no, it IS mid-afternoon, so where or wired the day dawning drawing droop droning on then to don her had, her head, her hope would picket her fence or that cat-in-the-hat nature of the tipping goldfish bowl in a land where her memory is as long as a red elephant, a blue dish, dance that old fandango, eat a mango, chop it all up to the slop shop, hand me a boa, she’s a doll caterwauling ‘long the catwalkline, keepin’ her in mine, is all, ‘tis called fall girl in the green flesh of it petting zoos or feeding bins, the land’s a scrape, a pine, a pencil scratch in the fogged over windowless lace of her cut out cubicles, or I am then wading in the waiting against the wooing her on the phone sitting like a heavenly bee blitzed out on the spandangles of her glitter, this diamond in the gruff smoke-stack ten-pack a day voice, that bull’s a dyke you can’t get over your knee, so strapped on, the bald peal or her laughter’s a sweater sweating angora down into your nostrils, lips, tongue, taste the tattered matter, the hat madder of her maidenformula, this One is forty weight transformer oil, a Buick in the rough, ‘gotcha get it on, tra la li and humpty dumbed it down for Madame four-eyes or -years or -o’clock on this tick, tack of it staged or straggling, zipped into them chaps, her chops not gonna knock any me, any more, down and then where would Alice be, a top, a bottom, pressed in or being pressed to below, or above, the bottled kizmit of Blondie r&b if only Beyoncé were free for dinner we’d dine her, weed diner, and the silver bullet train’s sidling past the cur, the cub of craps-line curbs to lay 50 on red or reeds in my ears shimmering, high C, or see to call it out, to check in with the ump, to give it up, my eye, give it a wink, then let her go
Fridays
By Jennifer K Dick
5 Oct 2007:
its like bewildered widened wakening to the blank lack of milk in the caffeinated beverage unmurkily re reflecting black back at’cha, atta girl, goin’ get ‘em she’s right round the bend of the blizzard this buzzard pecked bleak beaker of “what cha drinkin’ tonight Sal? sale? Sarah? Sonia?” shrill seal her back into the mire, my eyes stealing a thrill shut-eyed momentaneous blinking until I think it is mid afternoon, no, it IS mid-afternoon, so where or wired the day dawning drawing droop droning on then to don her had, her head, her hope would picket her fence or that cat-in-the-hat nature of the tipping goldfish bowl in a land where her memory is as long as a red elephant, a blue dish, dance that old fandango, eat a mango, chop it all up to the slop shop, hand me a boa, she’s a doll caterwauling ‘long the catwalkline, keepin’ her in mine, is all, ‘tis called fall girl in the green flesh of it petting zoos or feeding bins, the land’s a scrape, a pine, a pencil scratch in the fogged over windowless lace of her cut out cubicles, or I am then wading in the waiting against the wooing her on the phone sitting like a heavenly bee blitzed out on the spandangles of her glitter, this diamond in the gruff smoke-stack ten-pack a day voice, that bull’s a dyke you can’t get over your knee, so strapped on, the bald peal or her laughter’s a sweater sweating angora down into your nostrils, lips, tongue, taste the tattered matter, the hat madder of her maidenformula, this One is forty weight transformer oil, a Buick in the rough, ‘gotcha get it on, tra la li and humpty dumbed it down for Madame four-eyes or -years or -o’clock on this tick, tack of it staged or straggling, zipped into them chaps, her chops not gonna knock any me, any more, down and then where would Alice be, a top, a bottom, pressed in or being pressed to below, or above, the bottled kizmit of Blondie r&b if only Beyoncé were free for dinner we’d dine her, weed diner, and the silver bullet train’s sidling past the cur, the cub of craps-line curbs to lay 50 on red or reeds in my ears shimmering, high C, or see to call it out, to check in with the ump, to give it up, my eye, give it a wink, then let her go
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