Desperate Premeditation
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She thought it was an admirable point, although, with mock-exasperation, she moved her attention toward sounds from the road beyond.
Generally speaking, she was permitted entry. But budgetary deficits guarded her by night and day (a daily journey across the sky).
My fragments of reference show her taking part in a larger view; an assault to be launched against my life. I am watching as more and more shreds are blown off the various parts of some strange flower.
It has never been determined how she took 12 years to build the doorway. (A loose nail moves, and, at any rate, you know the truth now.)
Like the wing of an albatross, each year she tries to take a photograph of me, sitting around a table laden with runnels and drain-pipes.
I am delighted to think that those who live there, including her, carry a tramp-steamer gloom, that hangs over everything (where dates and figs were supposed to once grow).
How to convey the chalky whiteness of her skin; the tones of rock, slowly cooling lava. But for the time being I sigh and gaze round at hidden groves of olive, fig and orange.
For years I have been trying to describe the bones of the nymph Rhodon to her. But, with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, her mind is offshore somewhere, near the island Clementia.
Along the circumference of a drum - we are still busy fighting, and have escaped again into that magical darkness of a long-suffering dance. It seems hopeless in my frantic lunges (tango?), as I become further entangled on the outskirts of fantasy.
The faces of our friends would rise in gravity as she lost her temper. I realize now that her sharp classical features would morph into something more adolescent, unformed. Letting my head fall back, I listened as her voice became crumpled and cold with bilious humidity.
copyright 2013 David Ronce
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