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| >> Static Item >> Assignment >> Occult >> ID #1600278 |
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I am but a name in the game of
words. With good thoughts, I collect quilts of patchwork poetry, filling my notepads with expressions of the provocative, me, myself, what I am in the limelight. I have sealed my fate with the public, as someone screams: “Lady, look, you’re a deep brunette with a funny cat nose. You look like you wear silk hose. . . “ It sounds like you are waiting for the plot to break, like the man who gave you change at the gas station his image going dead as it rolls away from the day’s glare is a little too foxy. Somewhere in my mind the view is hanging from the bright glow of streetlights, giving a collossus of the exceptional round of fire whistles, cocked with chaos. I reach for the Northstar, cruise through the green lights and become traffic as foreign as the sound of baby rattles, tambourines, and crabs legs into cat dust. I’d journey for miles for the buried words, sly ingenue if I were you
© Copyright 2009 Feather Duster (UN: secretvick at Writing.Com).
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