Lifting the lid off the tub of yoghurt, a fleeting sight of what hath fought the fight in the light of the might. To follow the essence of content and a running desire for the cessation of spiders on the skin. Shown here is but only a year running back from today. Hunted are the months beyond.
Carry on a wayward trio, the top three states from the last outing are back at it again as the end of the Christmas and New Year holiday road toll ends with a forty and one as NSW triumphs once more unto the bleak.
Sunset ushers a golden glow where the day is about to end and the night, the oncoming evening, is ready to be done with as you please. All the worlds in a sense of open opportunities before bed and the snooze strikes at 21:00 local time.
Prices for coffins and makeshift cement pits are not exactly the only cause to mangle your body into a bundle of bones. But at least when you’re screaming high unto the sky in a blinding light you don’t think about how this Easter is a quieter one nationally. Eight at the end.
Again, before the due date arrives, the library shelves stock books no one will read and that will pass lonely, more under the dust, at the annual (but not annual enough) book sale. It is a purge more than anything, and the smell of fresh pages butting against the mould is only enough.
Liberty takes its freedom from the metallic jaws of life, wrenching guts and entrails from the side of the road to reveal that spirits are up as the bodies are high. We're 35 for the Christmas and New Year national holiday road toll and it's a bang up job to bang up a write-off with NSW at the headless.
All Christmas is, the one with the Santa Claus dropping mysterious packages into homes and running off before coffee-stained guards have a chance to ask "Whose bag is this?", is a way for people to get together and suppress the minorities in a way that makes it feel inclusive.
Ducked it for too long, but got caught with that right-eye glaze – that deckled edge on the lens awards cataract wisdom... & not much else. Call it, -tribution: ripped of a prefix and left for dead.
Smiles are paralysed senses on the brink of laughter or outright breaking down into saltier and saltier marshes. The mouth, turning up at the face of all that is sad or rather mundane, is really looking to run and take care of itself. Away from your face. That liar in the mirror.
Starts and fits. No words for the leprotic when the bacteriotherapy fails to take. Bacteriotherapy, bacteriophage, it just more dissimulation: false promises and double bottoms.
Allied prosthetic arm on one shoulder, and an unshaven back on the other, Liaz set out into the forest of the supply closet, ready to do battle with the dust motes that might thrust their bodies down his gut by way of his choking throat. It being a Wednesday, chances were high.
"Think," he said. "Think about this one more time. Think about the last time this happen. How much mess you made, Katyusha." He checks the rear-view mirror. "We ride to fix it again."
Peacefully the pillow yet sinks. The muffled guffaw gets quieter and the thrashing settles. A little bit longer still and the quiet burps out that one last gasp and into the wail of waiting sirens. Duck down, as comfortable as it feels, stretches out time. Time we no longer have to give.
[-W +H]as poetry ever been commissioned to absorb damage adsorbed in the municipal briar patch?