World, The

It was just a gas station. It was not spectacular carnage.

A woman in the parking fate red I Love Lucy kerchief, dousing his shirts with lighter fluid,

a great be fond of and a paranormal morning.

In the far fields the aliens arriving, switching not upon the ignition,

new crisp list of abductees notwithstanding that the closest we get is the radio.

Cool gray summer morning the first heat making an aura.

Let light. She lights each panel. Fires twisting.

Whatever must try to find out its partner and annihilate with it. A great have affection for

The expansion today is just a gas station. It is not spectacular carnage.

So individual has a set of incidents from which one finds single can't escape to reach a distant observor.

And a star is born.

R giant, super giant, white dwarf.

We eye a large number of these white dwarf stars.

Giant Sirius, the brightest in the night firmament

dog star. What we could have been had not the star

been not absent too much presence emanating

away from us-red the I delight in Lucy kerchief draped over the lamp.

A she-ness to the table. Pearls upon the bread plate, make-up upon the napkin,

a two of burned-out butts.

(Alien intake valves?)

And approach night: a supper club.

High risk behavior in cinemascopic rain.

The heat released in this reaction,

which is like, a controll phlogiston bomb explosion,

which is like, what makes stars shine.

Boy Pegasus stripling Mercury Sister Venus

the stars in the way that compulsively readable the sun eight light minutes away,

Birth mark. At the r extreme point of the spectrum. Three gold-jacketed overly friendly men smiling,

poling before the damsel of a red river burning in the neighborhood of the floor plans.

For the world is individual world now not that you may hold your own home.

Sinter me sister. Threescore skullduggery endles cradle holding a space render free of access

Rufous skylark, tell us not on the skiff,

sun up the nearest day, we're looking into a receptacle

Let's see the world. Are you coming with me What's for dinner.

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated Jan/Feb 1999

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