A social site for poets in Sydney.
The cloaked elan of a swerve, it took moon curve, foundational blue in blue, a swarm of swell, cantankerings of elation, not a personality to be seen on a wide tabularity. All that is vertigo is not cathedryllic, this numen is too vexed for spirit.
It will not be so for demons' voice hover low. This turn full of words lasts as long as the dance.
The pallour of your ethics needs the cloak. The stellar you've become requires the cloak. For the warmth and felt glee. For the molten pace and leadfoot centre. And the dust that arises. For the lava prone Earth to walk on my soles. For the lines required, the shot off nodes that bud, and embarrassed abstraction.
I am already naked no matter how I'm clothed or not. My palm lines foretell love, luck and itch. My sweat discomforts everything. You call it my sheen. Our hair is already wet from it. We cloak each other in case the sun is sensitive to us.
I am the colour blue - the subverbal hot quiver happy with gangster similarity. The song I made, though too silly to sing publicly, I obsess to its reel on my low rough laughing lonesome.
The eye at the end of the universe modestwise blinked at the eye at the other end, and the other other end winked and blinked, twinkled around here. I could only see a vision of happiness all knotted up, knots that blow away like foaminess.
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