Delphina

Forgive me father for I have sinned.
The winds have swayed me again.
To seek in a corner
To think in abstract
Hardly formidable words
Whispers thrown and blown away
I am frayed fomented abstrayed
Hummed humbled bubbled troubled doubled over
Confused confessed convexed perplexed to the extreme
Apotheosis forces
Apex with Amex flex flux lux
Big bucks trucks
Keywords ideas fragmented thoughts
Completed code in today’s phrasioloverse
A curse fill your purse
With bread
He died for dough
My friend.
Google friend and you will find me.
Your father. Compulsion. Revulsion. Propulsion.
Figure skating and MMA fighting
Godfather and Martin Luther King
The hummingbird sings. Faster and faster through colours of green leaves and yellow and orange and red flowers.
Blurs to a bee on a pollen spree.
Napoleon had bees on his emblems
A caliph not a caitiff
You common cry of curs!
Curse the word
Lackaday
I don’t care for weeks.

Since I tried to forget about her a shadow augmented by growing tears
Swelling felling trees and flees
Marketing and business deals
It feels like chicken
Don’t think.
Blink. Spink. Pucker your lips and backflip through the SAT’s and keep the lees for lesser prices and better meals.
It feels like butter I muttered through the streets after forming foaming and finally
To the point I fingered her and figured her outside in and ass-backwards
A few words is all I have left about her
She is only whispers. Less a whimper. A flicker.
The trigger pulled the cows were bulls
Toro for trophies and deals at low low costs
With hands and lead.
I have souls of lead.
I am nearly dead.
No. Not nearly. One hundred percent better. Two hundred percent fitter.
Blip and trip through black tie affairs.
A red tango dress she tore off before kissing my ear with something true:
We are through. I puked and crew cut my hair.
Now it has flare. I don’t care for days. Lackadaise. A vase. Bisou. I miss you.

Pricked by a torn rose. A pose and vogued through a torn ear in Amsterdam.
With a collapsing palace roof.
The proof is in the doodling.
The feeling. The emotion of Radio-Canada. Je suis Quebecois. Toujours. Ma belle province.
Je t’aime. I didn’t have a chance from then on.
Julia walked into the room. She was dressed like a vestal virgin. I thought I was Augustus once. They called me Marc Antony on the lupercal. And thrice presented me with Olympus crowned and drowned and frowned upon in these quarters. But I am a jumble of turds and ideas and fees. Trees cut and blown in a candle sinking thinking ships. A slip. When did I grow strong? When did I switch from mustard to Dijon? The elbow with the asshole and a troll growing pink hair under a brigde in London and pricked by roses and poses and treasure troves of curves. That was her. She was my sin, my single dame. It was a shame. I am to blame. The lamb. I trollied and follied and thundered and blundered and fundered and gunned her down with salty chips and fish in the sea. Forgive me Delphina and all the girls I’ve loved before. I am fortune’s fool.