high roads

When I took the blanket of the bed this morning, the fog was licking fingers. Mirrors are biggest liars, they show everything throw unknown angles. The lie started this day. I don't believe in saints. Never had. But you could smell the presence of someone odd. Never felt that before. There was a stranger in my room, in my bed, in my kitchen, in my stomach, in my floors. In the buke of peonies and lilies that stands near the microwave. I can feel him, he is watching me. I never believed him.

The wonderland was closing in, hair pins flew in the air, softly. The misery kept it self pretty tight, quietly and sensitive at some moment. Paper pages turned to different directions. A full time day dreaming was looking at us.

No longer anyone had something to say, it was obvious, someone surrendered. Pulse had made the last input. He was tall enough to see the high roads but low enough to crawl. Pushing the pages throw a low life. Time, we manege to stay in touch with the inner self. Post Freudian reality keeps it's mouth shut. That is a rule of the royal treat here. Just shut it.

I turned my back in and out - all you had been wasted. Macro space scientist drives you mad. It's all we ever had. Indeed the tendency here is simple. "Operation Miranda" will always stay on the top note as the back had the slight tone in it. Good bless you all!

Miss Sexton is an ex Miranda. She was her kind.

Her Kind

by Anne Sexton

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Good night,


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