the Queen glances. she approaches the gramophone and leans over a precipice. the crowd holds their breath.
the Queen has pearls on and the smoothest skin. through her country there are warm pulsating air streams flowing.
the Queen wants to leave the country. the sun starts fading.
the Queen is a Queen of spades. the finest chocolate.
the Queen is pale and has a whim. all right then. all right.
she balances over that precipice, her sweat has a low, sweetish scent. her sigh. her back bends in a triumphal arch.
i pay homage.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment