Presentation #2015, Dim Gold Song For Laura and Rebecca

The sex nutcrackers deteriorate a British cubist momentum well into the old age of chlorine Christmas flames. Rebecca, have you a clue why another blue snowstorm rests etched in nature’s jewelled clarinet until its red-rushing pulmonary roses tint the teardrop of one minute of the government in this rink of freedom? But the rink of freedom is burning to death here in this dark thought; and yet, freedom is grace squeezed into the yesterday of a forest crossing, the Laura I touch, the Laura in my fingers, the Laura stapled to my hair, Laura in my daughter’s red lips.

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