The Weave -- Unicorn

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Date Posted: 08:07:46 06/11/05 Sat
Author: AAAGGGSSS
Author Host/IP: AC848775.ipt.aol.com / 172.132.135.117
Subject: The Weave

something I came up with, probably sucks

Easing from
a very rounded
tub

pairs of quixotic nails
do
dance
their whine: screech
to porcelain pours

as the water she
wearing

rains

a deepening of sounds
to fill the air
as hair

robust abound

to elude
the prance
above the sides

glimmer like plastic
round

as she
to reach
the veil of towels
that lie

in the moonlight
hidden well

to crease
the windows

they alight upon her
as do the freshest warmest towels
to cuddle

removed
from chairs they lie
nearby

caned in weave
neatly antiques
she lifts

and tugs so slowly
to pat off her naked silk of skin

strokes upon, they glisten
wet and long, feeble, now tender
as though the corral
of a love song

with evaporation,
that listens

now by her
so invisibly, very saturated, in purity
and serenity, has tagged along

wet
in dabs as lotions, saves
pour
their long stream
effervescent gleam
to run
the same as sides

stay in touch, to slay
the many imperfection
that line the way
they don't

stick

but merely drip
off
in sheen that gloss
full length
so hearty a view
and tenderness
the living
has climbed through it

it is tangled
well crossed, and be
colossal in rubs thoroughly
every stitch
morsel
and stream

stranded
to moves over
her
and sides, and parts
to serenade
to posture
allure

the heart's whim
the felt
crisp glow
that winds the streams
of the living
know

with her

ornamented
lines of elegance

so sweetened as hung ripe peaks
that glance the stars
a veil of glass
whispers

that line
the forests
contain
in rowed trees of completeness
not tame
it is the rush
of a burning star
with eyes inside your head
the heart she bleeding
all will
to retreat
and still the bed is not made

the sparkle of oranges
diverse fruit
held
with their seedlings dripping
melt

you can sense it but
you cannot see it
the yearn for more
ingratiating smells
arising as any like a young ferns
growth

well ripened to flow, about
all that lies beneath
atop
and across, the full

a soothed
velvet hushed

in a moonlight sparkling flows

the tales
thinking
It is
the time of gardens
requiring
their
picking

it is that time

here,
to reside, in compounds
born
where no one is
that will tell

graced, and every orchid
ready

far

reaching, again
within her mind
with its often turns

and hands
that are ready
to reapply luxury

other creams, very arduous

concoctions

to heat soon, in the
brim, of the evening

as pouts, spry
grimaces, sorts well
rehearsed
in lives
begin to be now held

in the light of the radiant high candles
with gentle licks of light
burning
to truer reflections

affixed to
foot-long candelabra
plush
seated
adorned

the gravity of weighty
night

to be
nestled in
high vapors

mirrors

they steam, walk and they talk
coo the sorts of advice
well misunderstood
in winds of the courtesy

chants of what requires so
lusciousness
of steam of dreams
like songs song
two well pitched violins
oh but their echo
so strong

and all becoming new now
in preparations
does she

fumbles, hurry along
oh no
it just the final dab
that seers such a cry

about lips
chin
and cheeks
the line of the flowing
articulation of
the lowering jaw

that must by virtue erupt
smiles

drip back
to her eyes
as a favorite star hung

a sparkle
a silk
of all hesitated

a romance

to never in still
this lake of night softness
permitted
to flow

beyond
to her eyes
as she tosses

smoked reddened stockings
the matching heals
under her bed

this time
to answer
the bell
instead
in merely the sparkle
of what she glowing

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