Friday, March 4, 2011

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Material Witless

(e)Motion spawns (e)motive plains. You danged near yelp when I recede (into
your weevil scope). The mantra's plush enthreaded beeline locates scorn. Away
flies influenza, to the point once wheeled in tread. The way is truthful lighthouse.
In a frayed incisive plethora. You might have noticed ponds be ponds as boys are.
In the shag run of impermanence, a home is just a house left flush with (in)
experience. Now for the real mot juste. You have been noticed doing wheelies
upon silk. Whose markings are insistent upon someone's young. My own forensic
appetite leaves little to the magi. Once I see your way (c) leering at the lack of bulk,
I will enforce the fury left to participial badinage. The only home run that I know
results from having vaulted over pinheads piqued by norms. If ever principles
defray to clauseful choice, I will be weighing in the you and yours like chattel.
Wrung out and hanging on the line.

Nemeses clinging to fortran, seeds to shining simile

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