new modernism
On the morning of oblivion I rise with the mourning star. I move through the crowds and let our shoulders bump, our hands touch, our eyes wonder. In the park light dazzles children climbing hills, dashing fields, running the jungle gyms lords of all. And in the cafes hairy legs and summer dresses, grizzly beards [...]
His hands came to rest on her bare shoulders, she weakened her shoulders inviting his hands further down, to fall on her heavy breasts, low and beautiful, to move all around her heart's tract, to fill his hands with her before his voice cried Emma to an empty parlour, to the ghost of a dress [...]
