Sunday ******* popped into

his head.

He had to write about a:

Sunday ******* & didn't know why.

While rain showed streets photos of

itself--he thought about a

Sunday *******.

It was already dark out when it popped

into his head, which made it more

interesting.

Then it came like it was always there,

it was Father's Day.

Already bored by the subconscious irony,

he pouted at the Sunday *******.

Monsters don't really evolve, their

horror does.

They don't find themselves thru fear.

One never thinks of them in embryonic

fluid, but pushed out of a bramble.

Unquestioned middle age.

Moving by way of unprocessed screams.

A mass that blocks the whole movie

screen, densifying epiphany.

A domestic situation in an abyss,

as record states what lives alone.

He tidies up places animals chose to die.

He was lost inside the currogated

dents of a water bottle, when he

realized fingers did the same to him.

Feeling that someone loved him for

the role, is when he became one.

The lingering concern

of perfume's inner distance.

The clapper of a black rose--

a deepsea downpour.

A submission graceful

enough, as not to have been.

Is when her scent's allayed,

rends those.

As the horde scandalized: The Oscars
for best village idiot, Jezebel captured
kindness & did things to it.
As they fumbled & bumbled to be looked
after, to come to mean no harm--Jezebel
opened an underground soup kitchen
for her generational curse.
They all came with their bowls, coveting
the recipe.
Jezebel made kindness smile for all the
wrong reasons, like she rehearsed at
home--or else.
Jezebel did whatever it took to discipline
the dark arts.
Worked a burning candle inside her, to raise the pitch of words.
Then fell on a blank page like a bored
tormentor.
Where poetry did everything she said.
She cackled as village idiots were charmed by her words, & the odd ****
that said: Who, me?
Until a Jnani slurped down the bowl, named every ingredient & burped.