sand in the phone

the writer dips his quill into digital ink leaking from his fingertips pricks blood with white feathers writes black letters bound in gold hard copied toffee scented dust of magenta sprays play in the air grasps the conceit and retreats to concept lacking in execution but escapes with his head bound tightly around his face held in place by bits of plaster plastic casted it hardened and kept its shell and the garden smelled of wells digging deeper than grasshoppers dare to dip flip it around and out of the ground pumped the air into the oil filled ocean under the sun push through it breathe deep lungs taste like dynamite sponge soaked in mostly water holds hard to his hand scabbed over by the road block jabbed roses into heels paced the world with feet of flowers red scent crushed under foot but above gravel existing just in between and twist the meat wringing all the heat out leave it cold dries in the shade dead for days but still goes on tied up with string from the butcher packed by the bagger and begged from the dagger took it anyways trite and truffled decadence danced on embers of soot put undone trembling and stocking filled up with rancid claws bent and thawed lying in salt push barrels of it out harold the scout who dared slay about the rivers blue and branching kept in tubes redundant and recurrent and recurring in a nightmare for the dark stallion loud and rounded dents iron with bone and turf sniffs whole reasons every turn caves prancing to the fence princely and calm head bows ears cut with calligraphy pressed on paper and mailed to melt whithers blows pelted by pelts felt good without felt the raw shell tipped its hinge automatic reload and tragic scattered danced with matter grasping at her and clapped at laughter


TWENTY-EIGHT JULY TWO-THOUSAND-ELEVEN