Noting as a frame of flimsy- miss Odysseys

The frame of flimsy courtesies the big nothing like a tooth over a whale hole in the gum that is waiting for a break in orangerinds and peelings of lime green syphilis, on the Mondays after. On Tuesdays the frame will probably fall incomplete over a gap in the consistency of memory in the woman as pink chenille ain’t taffeta to Wednesday. The day after is the one because of the frame of calender days that hold histories as hostage and opened up tomorrow as the time already had. So it was no surprise that the place of broad plains collapsed into shower curtains at the end of the week. That month just gone was conspiratored into peeling the space from culminious cloud and boiling them in the teaming rains of Calcutta. Canada was next. The bears of Nebraska ate looms and sundials for the fame of tea. Grass plains were subverted into algebraic-connotating
-tourist-haven-retirement-parks offering golf and the moment before twelve as a late night movie. The screen was at the same place the table of cornucopias for mouths of fur lined boots at summer camp, in winter ate and ate.

The woman was at first complicated…as one was two-framed compassion. Owing to the small opening her approach was fastened to shape but with intricacies of demeanour the spied line became ousted and the mink was soon on the right track of complete. She began by becoming ever the hero and tights were anointed then annotated. Big muscles rippled. Her bright melancholy was gestulated by her jumping up and down up and down. Up and down was annoyed by the turn-pike complacency of instinct that froze the wipers on the blade…small threads were eyed as cameleers. Never the less she reached the page of Normanby and held the door as wide as Candid, held and lapped-dogged the fold of reams of spun cotton and bodices of nipples. This was quite the reprieve she had wanted now the coursing of the insincere could disclose the merry. The frame held too for a shortened mile and spannered the hope of nincompancy at the belly lie. The tooth lay low and juice flowed down into the crotch seam of curtain at the cloud of the bears eating sunbeams at the table of lights. Sure you could be thought and one had only to say but to see the umbilicus of the date was admission enough. She had arrived at the first frame of flimsy, and she ate and ate and ate.

She who was it became them that was her, the bears were quite popular. Still. In frame was
she who ate custard, was she who ate the dryness in apricots, was she who held protons? was she who laughed smoke. Her past was becoming as the stream of words hemming her footprints. Cups were unlaying. Lift lids spoke…the flimsy was in tarantella a quivering in delight.

She…
the…
up-ending the…
and withdrawing only after the fight. Past portholes of fissure and globules of delight pressing inward, piano stile and an-eye-at-a-time…the serenata as sulphured yellow shine. Each dirge then was transfigured as wine purple. See. A loom is still sorting threading sties of reprieve. Frame. flimsy. Row home a line at a time.