The Cantor of a dissertative life

A beggining of sorts
And so begins,
not in a time and place,
some is past,
this cantor of the dissertative life,
though now,
some not,
contemplative,
reactive,
kinetic,
for where is an beggining,
there is no end,
so few under bright day,
stary night,
ever night,
till long day endless sunshine,
that was,
is,
was and will be again,
till long day forever more,
ending of twilight to twilight,
till long day endless joy,
what is not the cantor
of the dissertative life,
which is best to say,
than what it is not of,
then we would know,
for to prune,
remove and trim,
like a ship in the breeze,
on the gale,
on the storm,
to loose and lessen what is not needed,
and to sail upon
the turbulent oceans,
laden also,
or cast off to the depths down
to the locker,
and glib too for,
list and roll,
yar.

yar.

yar.

At One Started Ending:

In angulat momentum, listed to port for the churned definition that was the sweeping and rarification of where to be? There, a whale of it, a tail, brightness through the gossimar sheen coming through again, to show the slope, the curve, the precipise like strip underneath the dress finely sculpted all and giving all, revealing less of more so well and finely the burning in the blood. We men, like sunlight was in our flesh prompting the urge, the head listing this and that, fore and aft, and I seeing such trim, such an yar of streemline shape, head to port and confessing on that day one and four of that day, that day that all men confess, boldly so confess of all angelic patrons and in the inner self of romace and love.

Given to much, given to much and then longed, then so often not. Only not so, too trim, too yar and never no! Never the cowards what if! So, outside and front, then confessions done. If then, to the reader I speak as the vessel seen. If the, such a yaght so sleek, ther, in front of me, not sought or to seek but out upon the wind and water, yet still given this, given but not so for the faint of heart. also, on such an hot day, of all hearts valentine, beneath the waters of the pool called sent, and visions seen first, under dark, under siloam. Under dar and beneath the covers, nights sweet delight the vow!

and such did was this that day. she had then promises made before that this so were off, jilted, where thinking then that all said to be done that day sweet and well now forfieture. Yet on such a day there is no brotherhood for the dogspittle that left her, to be in a bank, waiting with her own money, of what she may now not spend, waiting to be jited, spurned, and such a trin and yar vessel to sail upon was she. Though, I did have an previous engagement, with a little deal and a rolled green finger of sloth, with mates givent o playing games and she did come with, not of the bent for such things, or silly little lights of games in a box. And so she thinks, to be jilted by another, then only to be saved to sit and what high times in front of a little screen, and this was no day with IT in the air, for sloth.

Only not so. We left off and then yes. This trim vessel was so bristol fashion, under the T, given to more triangular shape that some other had already given hearts murmur yet not shown there, and finding me banking also, followed outside there by me thinking to myself “if she be outside and alone let me, this valentines day” and blunt of air now very of the smitten mind think all over because of sweet smelling smoke that makes one to give in in to much ease. But done to be done we were, and for such a form as this, ready from loss already given to me, one loss ones gain. Mine the gain of more, mine the more.

So she was this vessel, glistening so greatly well, that like a yellow scented candle, like, wax running down, wax, yet not some thin formless length, but of contour lines and sculpture that memory cannot cast off, the pernicious clinging of memory, like a clean crisp clipper of imagery that weathers all since, cutting through the still made clean clear pond that such meniscus stillness hid nothing of her angular momentum as she kicked forward, stroking under silken skin invisible to the color of her skin unfathomably well against those triangle pieces, revealing little, yet giving so much of nothing.

To recall on that day where all men confess, she one less of twenty and I say to the reader that was one more so then one and one between us.

Fine a times.

So after swimmingly a time, at the local pool we were want to frequent. And knowing her appreciation that her Day was not to a loss, then this then, I purchased a piece of sunshine on a stem a well flower for a well flower., not many, not less, one perfect sunflower, as long and sleek but never so fine or well formed as this siren. Though I do not recall the celluloid vision of that day, we saw, any flickering tail of actors would have done, for for it was the company of the day that was the setting and the show was just a place to be together and show of the tow flowers as if to portray better and best. It was hearts day and flower and shimmering dark and tongues and lips and hands and then home.

Left aside, stood up, a day redeemed. Sun-shining through a sarong to reveal the bikini ready, so I took her with sweet words, my home so close and me unprepared yet for money. This then my friends, we smoked a while and in altitude she thought more promises broken. Though we walked the hundred yards to the local swimming pool, and to see her swim beneath such a moment, her sleek small form, making such long stokes of her limbs that it was well then all stops to weigh anchor and birth for the night.

Then yet, nothing, nothing each but beneath the same silken skin.

For to lose on that day for a girl is too much, and not done in gratitude but, well in romance.

Of beneath those silken sheets nothing said only one word the vessel.

Yar.