Water tower # 17 with neorealism and rye

 

Open the sheer deer curtains into the wide, white rink. 

If I am cinematographer, a foil sole, bench seats where one sits and sits some more. 

If I am metteur-en-scene, a flysheet, invisible ink pen to ink in the ghost particles,

sinkers on the trinket tray. All the way to China.  And standstill, the walls. 

Oh to have been. 

A silver screen, a retro-moviola's lyric Mobius, tinsel of multiple tenses.

If I were oneirographer, beginning, middle, end-deer, a threnody.

Enter deer # 0529 (star of light emitted). 

And entered deer # 0228, deer # 0318, deer # 0816 (boom, boom, boom said the boom carpet). 

Is clockwork a-dumbing, is daisy chain.

Deer # 2332, a smasher, a would be, rye whiskey, a cryyy

Do you hear that melody?

Little King Stone, I whisper.

Took the light rail, baby. Straight down to nowhere. And never come up.  

Do not let the children see. Said no one in particular.

 

 

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