Obtuse In The Geometrical Sense
Nobody, along the route to a dinner, talks crushingly about themselves anymore.
Staunch in invention, christen your forks to your liking and bite the hand that feeds you, your own hand.
The art of injecting withered to its center; Glazed in caster sugar and soft butter; This ones a show stopper!
Slicing yourself in half, Slicing each other in half, Slicing each other some angel food cake.
Don’t forget the glacé cherries or self-raising and obssessed flour and
Tinge your throat gingerly with old bits of yourself.
Though dressed up next to royal Madeira cakes and candied persimmons, all the good parts sink to the bottom and onto the floor.
The chandelier isn’t lit anymore though there is an illusion of luminosity through the front door.
Why does indigenous grief never have a cause?
Why does hot weather permit a storm to my liking?
What does it mean, to wear your favorite red shoes and believe yourself?
With every ravish, cash crop my confusion and brand it in an extraordinary flavor.