<sought candy houses>
revisionist disciples play father god games...
their gambits on patterns perceived
decide war and famine
and who better to profit
by cruelty tome-d
in curative wells...
its drawn foregone conclusions
are paired subscriptions to an after-life
with its limitations written
into the payouts...
i sing..."don't push me 'cause i'm close to the edge..."
i'll play in shadow traffic
and suckle upon the breasts
of the fallen...
these fantasies of mine
these goddesses
these nymphs
these maidens
and mothers...
oh those cemeteries are keen
with our arriving fully engaged with the lsd...
scent of velvet is a ground fog
a whispered mist that clings...
you said this is way better than parking lots
weeded with the ghosts of theaters past...
the pines trees like being sentinels here, i said...
you smiled, told me to trace my fingers
over your lips in the dark
said gently, I already knew
the map of her October...
EJR ©
You have one "s" too many here: "the pines trees"
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