Diary Of A Sunday Evening / by D.M. Jerman

The following are poetic lines which may be read/repeated in any order.

Already a wittier response than the ones I have on hand are required.

I wear a pink jewel.
Today I've gone out of my way to digest pink things. The gummi vitamin. The strawberry frosted donut.

And here's another truth collected: lines are lethal. Memorize limits to bend suppression- make the rules melt. Symmetry is a caterer to recognition.

Also: intimate to existence is silence.
Texture leads to preference.

Amongst shredded steam, touchable musics are blood and tide.
We are searching elevator eyes going up to go down.
Stare for space, stare downstairs.

To continue the exquisite lattice, the trinity's procession is breaking into heaven.
The sound of their harps hug a scream, causing double-sided dreams.

The rope up my bones, eager on watch, does not talk, for it may disappear.
All while their glance achieves the fractions of a kiss.

Rampant in absence- oh how living dismisses objects from their root!
Living- the stubborn slash of it-
could be lists taken out of context.

Each candlesticks jackknifed alight while white flowers grow from books.

There was a pressure then to consider the lonely summer- brown and bleeding into the low water like a photograph- its damage point being a riddle, or an infected burn.

No one weeps to the chime of ice cream trucks, however out of sunscreen.
Biked over the levels- too much reading and books read with the self in the center found blank.

I have been a hopeful nuisance in a potted shirt.
Precious with my ceramic broken flower breasts covered in oil.

When sunk tranquil in that throbbing me-scape, I've tongued my native speech toward audible stippled cramps of sound.
Past greedy bites (lest dread mistake you for an urgent swell.)

Weep not then your smarted carols over untreated milks.
Sinister gargles are instead called forth to comment, to splice, to fit, to magnify.

Either as hungry as circuit or scaffold.
When subject, some come shamelessly down.

Just as surely your grope will goad on to gossip trivial troublemakers.
Their perfected scratches for sculpted stills purchase a punched-up script.

You unpacked your sundance to draft drinks casting crass bets backwards.
Here you are on a night good for nothing but poetry...

Just then someone was stars on a field of napkins...