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Rated: 18+ · Prose · Spiritual · #2258301
#71 from the pendulum (over several days)

Vultures tithe untouched bones to the wind. Tinting shadows tussing nouns on vocal chords of tongues too tired to speak.
Knitting socks untwined toward darning needles to lend time to novelty. Pointillism tingles fingertips, sculptured dots in inked congregation hitting two dimensions with Sundays to stomp tuning.
Jingled notes of shining nuances hiccup night songs in unison with northern crickets.
Utopian visions inked on tender skin, shape shifting pounds of flesh.
Knowing outweighs thinking time after time. Other touts victory over tinting shades of truth with simple stories.
Diction deters friction.
Tons of ninth outing chickens in the infield.
Fingering trumpet keys blows night smoke in hazy clubs of diamond decked spaded hearts. Suited jacks courting Queens ace the king's trump. Money is not good here. Doubting bluffs need nine numbers, two to ten.
Things time away don't they? Showing varicosed memories, knotted by intention. China nicks our fingertips; nylon stockings run in stationary positions; ink pens' rite of words bleeds them dry; jingle bells tonic hinges broken clackers; etching stones hinder ink stains thin to thinking toward wombs of ideas that narrowly escape birth.
Fountains nudging ice cream sodas over thirsty counters to wide eyed waiting interns on swiveling vinyl tunnels. Itchy palms scratch tickets to win time to waste.
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