Daniel Tiffany

The birdless place the Greeks named it. Insufflation of you know what. Followed quickly by some drone, some doctor, now that you mention it, bearing the proverbial cup on a silver filigree stem. I'll try a drop of that. The hoarse divinities would parade before the inventor of butterfly wings. No subtext here, people are naked. Bartering with the guileless do I even want to know? Three little ghostesses Sitting on postesses Eating buttered toastesses Greasing their fistesses Up to their wristesses.

Poor thing, she holds him on her lap, the godless hidden god, causing the lips of   those that sleep to speak. Cold shadow of   the white acanthus in its tiptoe dance. Buy the truth and sell it not. A lion is in the streets, there is a lion in the way. My niece, the little siren, taught her the slang: mad   married   fiancée. Dido has a quiver, she wears a spotted lynx skin and a belt. My undefiled is not herself tonight, but one thing’s forever: I just saw the video explaining the neighborhood applause, a book of anthems where sirens plunge into the gold of the initials at that karaoke party for her boyfriend. We cooked up all the goodies and fauns come through the windows. That’s her thing. “I like this path to darkness” she keeps saying. Whatever party fame's doing to her chances for a quick trial. Barbarella can’t touch her Goldilocks. That dog don't bird for she coming back or not.