Gerald England

Little thighs pull her eyes and he is the twinkle in the calendar. The smooth powdery hollow under her black skirt furled back separates lands. Tears swell from beyond the ultimate invention. And he rises. Gone is the dark closing ponderably slow like an old calendar. Lay some common sense; if the same suggests rain drowns sight under mist, distorts from the hypnotic state that is the sea too small to expose his desires. But for the day, if what shall receive - thus to play. The wind no longer returns to long forgotten designs. No-one speaks now the mountain streams cascade. A revolution of the Laws of tea! I use its cheery flame to dispel the lights now I'm considering suicide.