The furnace fumed with the fumes of six hundred frightened drummers. Drumettes bitten by the end of the yellow globe unbound from eons of ecstasy in the lyre of Zeus and Apollo.
Hammers. Hammers and nails reside in a collective brick house where they came undone when Nancy says to come round the vivid mountain of delight. Constable it was or were in the coal dust swept along the rift in the earth, the crust of the mantle of candles bearing due northsouth along the equatorial guinea at half a percent interest. An interest that knows no bounds of Satan or Saturday coming up the drive of contankerous cabooses on the railroad of tomorrow’s grief.
Tears of pleasure but only if she first grants you a firm grip on your own bride or bridge despairing whatnot chasms of jam or butter. Rivers of butter and batter and banter through the radio days they say frightens miss silly again.
Originally published November 7, 2023
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I’m scaring myself. I actually loved this line: contankerous cabooses on the railroad of tomorrow’s grief. Well done!
😀
I’m not sure I understand the prose, but I understand the compulsion to write. Thank you for sharing.
That’s the extent of my understanding too. 🙂
Damn! Totally Eva Marie Saint on a South-by-Southeast train with banana fries! Things we take for Grant’d!
Like to catch a notorious affair to remember with suspicion of male war brides and bishops’ wives playing penny serenades.