The end.
Numbers of numbers enumerated the flawed possibilities of awed awnings aligned in bitter contempt against the filtered followers of patio umbrellas.
Fellas, how long will the throng of entire monuments to sadder days and madder heights trip over the rip in the tipped over carpet, they sang in unison. Ginger curled her hair to the thump thump thumping of George’s favorite radio playing unconstrained qualities of merciful aromas–benightedly.
Taking it all with a grain of salt, the sand flowed into and out of the hour glasses littering the menagerie of Kentucky Bill. Ginger scoffed. George wafted. The awning yawned at yet another neat trick of the establishment to prolong the day of disaster one more day and one more day yet again.
Enumerated possibilities numbered the numbers of disbelief and concerned themselves awl over again.
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Secrets and scars and old orange cars hogging gas while hauling ass dripping oily memories on driveways of the richly impatient patients patently portryaing themselves as beyond grime and crime finger pointing the black bloody grout looking heavenward ignoring the slippery strains of yesterday’s stains the stars came out like they owed them something gauzy rubbing vaseline over the lens of time greasy now permits softening the sight of scars with secrets.
Dear
Rick Malery
Ulysses of James Joyce only I remember.
Mallery reminds of Samuel Becket
Your style is classic & modern at once, vertical & horizontal both in large span of human life. Thank you for liking my Jilebi 🙏🌺