Open jawed pigeons hunt sidewalks for noon.

There she indentured air—the fountainhead of freedom’s bursting,  torchlight agility.

The choosiest chocolate stopwatch this grown melody; birds; emotive wreathes.

The monkey’s exasperated thoughts were:  rest, feed, get moving

“Friend request my rising breathe?”

I knew that Czech had its clause in the dammed will.

Us vivifying angles show applications beneath sleepless love

Know the roads you travel with me and shield skies from this grocer’s murmurings

There’s nothing in this hand; there’s something in this handle this thought with a dare:

The more the chill air, the more the hunger nose that special scent of someone

Pleasure shambles through corridors with a sonic peace of each outstretching petal

The star bucks weight her found a buzzing soft hymn assenting

Lip ring tugging and I’m just sayings of renowned hypocondratic smell things


The cell phone ring weights the hand with an unexpected voice.

A lighted candle uncorks the sound of warmth

We’ve got to get moving through this summer dress the way you like red and whine candy canes right?

Everyone hurries some wear that pretty pink dress before me fall down.

Rad shoes, groovy blues, gnarly noose this necktie me up and let me haunt it.

Your thumbs tell so many lies the virgin with the daze pay.

The flying lights lightly for shimmer gold and flour to make won cookies rise.

The best poet in the world told me:  Eat, Pray, Love was a swell bookmark your mineshaft for flagrant fun.

She moves on the disco floor with wild caught salmon simmering on the pan

George Washington Cherry-treed your honesty

The moving filmstrip tasted your rude light of mine and theirs, of his zoo.

The horse’s aroma of clean rushing, winded sailors and sashes

The social mores of the trilling news sends pink, cotton candy pantings

That big man said, “Wash my dishes bitch, House Slave!” with you for E, ahhh…ecstasy, I think was what they slipped each other.

Bruce will is your favorite color nothingness…forget—Bruce will is the time your favorite color this book with your best—Bruce will is your sight to forget weight on bended breeze up the wavy, lazy smoke rings. Bruce will is, Bruce will is:  Together.

Electric out let this enrapturing platitude mystify the, Hello, how are blue clouds sailing across…my, my.

The sonorous, red whine of purity fell from your lips over your hips

The brave army defeated, it decides to retreat each soldier to a dish of Danish and Daisy’s torn dress

Together, shard a neigh that prop position of stopping, sopping wealth.

Night after night, seat after heat, row afterglow


Drugged out adventureland roller coastlines flourish with towels and sun tan lotioned shoulders

Echoing, fearful brewskis for my friend’s friends in Aquaman’s blownout, cocaine apartment.

Depths of insanity sing the gunshot air; miniature demigods roust lemonade stands for lost saints.

Gravity loses us a lost cause of animal passion unbridled selfishness longs for washing clean.

The frantic tightening of lost minds converging on a solution of scapegoat and quick finished past answers.

The boneyards of illumined despair of a heightened sensibility unwarranted of his connection to tilling, humus filled soil.

The removal of beautiful power to grow back threefold in reborn children.

The silencing of the losing side, the unimaginable maps of haunting shiftless lights.

The posh, removed critic traipsed over the dis course of fusion hatred and glib smirks.

The rich beauties soiled the glitter-stoned carnage with hair opulence.

We fought so that others might amnesia renounce their temporal contour

Peace anywhere even in the absolute vacuum of power and wis dumb old man asked me for a nickel.

Those white teacups are being smashed by the inheritors of their lands that look how they are still us.

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About davidwallacefleming

David Wallace Fleming is a U.S. writer, living in Austin, Texas. He is the author of the coming-of-age, social media novel GROWING UP WIRED, and the satirical science fiction audiobook, NOT FROM CONCENTRATE.
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