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fawna

she signs her name as "shawna"
flourish nourish
the black beneath the fingernails
like darkness on the soul

convertible justice
down the turnpike
the warm fall rain like winter ice
shine slick beneath the eave
as she passionate dives deep
slips it far and gives the ease

under the factory seat
the oiled articulated machine
the trooper cruiser rolling
about
like the sheep in wolves attired
he hunts the compounds
for the buyers

hollow points and copper jackets
even with the silencer
it will still bring the racket
and he wants smooth ejection
like glycerine mouthed
simplicity
a full tank and the focused
ferocity

and ticking under a quarter panel
is the gps bug
watching all the angles
too rushed to do the full check
too harried to wash the windscreen
full of specs...

the full throated carberatuer yowl
an exocism cast out to the world
of hell

pounding miles by like stakes
oak and silver
let the c ount break
till dawns shores
on a river sediment
like coffee make
shove the car in the
tumor of garage
unleash the dogs
and crash make....

....

Editing stage: 

Comments

Something about your use of language makes me feel like I'm wrapped in a blanket of your words. They flow like wind through my fingers. I may not be able to always catch them, but I feel them.

we were instructed on reading...books books and books
sunday school teachings....television late night announcers
we were infused with the word.....the way.....we were taught
the old time classical fairy tales when wind would whip the windows
Snow Whites wicked witch was real as an august apple..
the snow Princess sat behind us in school although she didnt
know....everything melded folded like damascus steel....
advertisments were formulae ....

radio announcers from a teen era cuddled me in damp rainy cars
crank the engine warm up the compartment shut off...

if you comment you have caught them
like fireflies in spring....like monarchs in milkweed
of which we loved and were taught to hold gently

language
was a semaphore
\
Iove your writing
apathetic and unapologetic
circling about it to write a comment
but I shall

thank U

author comment

I will make it myself.
Number two.
Excellent piece.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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