a collaboration between myself and Markov

I. Orpheus

March. Hale as folk art. 

Good morning, Orpheus Ever-Moving: Lay down from moment of fear, the other, reeking and dissatisfied, his prophet’s sandals and government sanction, and in pitch, with a time to us. And Suffer-the-Children keeps jars and lets the window and knives, he says. Briseis is suspect, not stupid, and his progress, sunflowers turned to them, always fighting back asleep as the labyrinth. His head, true healing, but can you stand the call through the body odor in either scoop or the rotten luck of a decaying iron?

II. Hylas

He sleeps alone.

They were his love. See how richly savored, how to see her! Peerless her eyes and sky, there’s an hour breaks through the cherry! Peerless her eyes, she is a fountain, what he knew my body, as long years in the Brown, and eke another plague. Bring me like sabers, like the tips of tendon, sick of China for our verdant treasure does not wearing the neutrons.

We tatter with my work. I’m glad she ties its size; someday is many pieces of her. Recognition is a joy of rest; for centuries old.

III. Persephone

They sought for her abductors. 

She strokes a lot of study of fire starts. You, lady, hey, a garden, he thinks; says, “Pablo, he has seen — it’s Evangeline, honey! Hey baby!”  Come on a zombie, one in Hali beside himself as a perennial debate: everything is underwater or anything. 

I don’t hound her, so excited, cheerful, awkward. The carpenter’s lips wrapped her eye, an animal had five hundred half-glimpsed lives.

a collaboration between myself and Markov

She kept her floor.

They said he’s slowly, mistily rotating around the crowd when he lacked the world at it, and fighting for the fields that this — we haven’t met — at last day like their houses and goes down that bearded grasses; hard slog, sure. I had been much in code.

It was an accident.

Hamilton. Cedar has nearly, completely, either; she reaches Carnadine, but enough untainted by alcohol, vice, she kills time, and we learned patience. I tell Hodgson he was morning, puffy and frozen. He settles down with one of avalanche. The All-Mother caged in my littlest one. “Chum” is how you weren’t to Dad, I was born knowing.

Late to Borges’ Library. Though they took us coming, turned the minor hypnosis calm as the sea, they wanted anything. What in its teeth, but not blinked — who would laugh, and bad teeth, new today: one eye is Jerricha, one is a cellphone in this. I am done without. Hey, wow, say the houses and speak. I know, blind and bled through by regular slow magisterial progress of bars.

Still chasing red again.