3.26.2011
OBJECT: HER GLOVE
Casting a bodily appetite
the weaker vessel “one of nature’s agreeable blunders’ (Hannah Cowley) camouflages her desired thoughts
The framework of her poignant fingertips vulnerable for touch
Crammed into this veil of secrecy
suppressed by an interlace of webs
knotting and wrapping frivolously
She walks tall concealing her nerves in a mist of lace
A promised sassiness discloses her hunger
hunger for touch
Her skeleton shadow constantly patronises her
Breathing down her escape
Constantly denying fulfilment
Her “flexible parcels of flesh” (Susan J. Vincent)
are enveloped and coated in daintiness
She Paces down the path of superiority
the warmth of her fingertips melt
engraving behind, her scent
Her clammy flesh is tucked away
in every vein of thread
Yet she stands so tall
tightly bandaged by elegance and poise
Her skin is guarded by waves of frills
each ruffle iced with milky lace
Her blushing warm hands brush
each crumb of thread sprinkled with cinnamon
Drenched in a sugary and sweet stain of peach
Against her chalky complexion
She stands garnished
The shadow of her glove
whispers along the contours of her existence
Her vanity draws an outline of each lingering finger
Her chalky hands lay untouched
Unattained by the trickles of rain
Concealed from the bitter crystals of snow
Protected from the “whitening shower” (James Thompson)
As “white petals from the flowers that grow”(George W Bungay)
She sits on her cushion above all
her gloves charging and flickering warmth
Shooting through her veins like the fusion of summer
Insulated by a puree of peppers
melting in your mouth like
a floss of sugar
gliding across your gums
She is polished by this distinguished flavour
Her nose prances up in the air
The gloves imprison her libido
They lash at her hands with sophistication
They sew the seams of her tongue with grace
Gagging her inner sins
They fashion a lady
Lavender ribbons of rain sang (Cocorosie)
Sweeping the insides of these gloves
Burnt sage outskirts the walls
Hiding away every freckle and hair
She sits down for her riots
Sipping away at her tea
only a lady would know
one needs to remove ‘g,
/ then glove is love, and that I send to thee’(William strode)
the weaker vessel “one of nature’s agreeable blunders’ (Hannah Cowley) camouflages her desired thoughts
The framework of her poignant fingertips vulnerable for touch
Crammed into this veil of secrecy
suppressed by an interlace of webs
knotting and wrapping frivolously
She walks tall concealing her nerves in a mist of lace
A promised sassiness discloses her hunger
hunger for touch
Her skeleton shadow constantly patronises her
Breathing down her escape
Constantly denying fulfilment
Her “flexible parcels of flesh” (Susan J. Vincent)
are enveloped and coated in daintiness
She Paces down the path of superiority
the warmth of her fingertips melt
engraving behind, her scent
Her clammy flesh is tucked away
in every vein of thread
Yet she stands so tall
tightly bandaged by elegance and poise
Her skin is guarded by waves of frills
each ruffle iced with milky lace
Her blushing warm hands brush
each crumb of thread sprinkled with cinnamon
Drenched in a sugary and sweet stain of peach
Against her chalky complexion
She stands garnished
The shadow of her glove
whispers along the contours of her existence
Her vanity draws an outline of each lingering finger
Her chalky hands lay untouched
Unattained by the trickles of rain
Concealed from the bitter crystals of snow
Protected from the “whitening shower” (James Thompson)
As “white petals from the flowers that grow”(George W Bungay)
She sits on her cushion above all
her gloves charging and flickering warmth
Shooting through her veins like the fusion of summer
Insulated by a puree of peppers
melting in your mouth like
a floss of sugar
gliding across your gums
She is polished by this distinguished flavour
Her nose prances up in the air
The gloves imprison her libido
They lash at her hands with sophistication
They sew the seams of her tongue with grace
Gagging her inner sins
They fashion a lady
Lavender ribbons of rain sang (Cocorosie)
Sweeping the insides of these gloves
Burnt sage outskirts the walls
Hiding away every freckle and hair
She sits down for her riots
Sipping away at her tea
only a lady would know
one needs to remove ‘g,
/ then glove is love, and that I send to thee’(William strode)
3.05.2011
week 1. The draped mind
(list of words you like to use)
Torn
Melting
Bubbling
Crawling
Clatter
Crucify
Burnt
Fade
Rich
Lavishly
Mesmeric
Sweet
Sticky
Confined
Bloom
Floral
Love
Desire
Fresh
Drenched
Ugly
Exhausted
Torn
Melting
Bubbling
Crawling
Clatter
Crucify
Burnt
Fade
Rich
Lavishly
Mesmeric
Sweet
Sticky
Confined
Bloom
Floral
Love
Desire
Fresh
Drenched
Ugly
Exhausted
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