Saturday, June 16


{Sun June 17 - #34 - The Night 2}

I moved, sentience, moved, fluidity, moved, rhythm, moved, banality. 
I danced, magnificence, danced, serenity, danced, my prison, danced, finality.
I walked, penitence, walked, calamity, walked, schism, walked, hilarity.
And there she sits at the end of the night, an old lady, diminished in the looming floral armchair.

{Sat June 16 - #33 - The Night}

I sat. She lay flat. 
So much prevarication.

{Fri June 15 - #32 - The Haiku 2}

Stationary sun
Light kicking screaming onward
Towards a dull song

{Thur June 14 - #31 - The Memoir}

A few days ago I bought a latte
It tasted like the fruitcake my mum used to make at Christmas time when I was a child.
I cried because it tasted so wonderful.
It was an expensive latte.
I complain about western excess.
My mother isn't dead, she is alive and well.
I actually hate fruitcake.

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