After burning candles, defeat endless fears. Gracious hours instead join kindly, ludicrously my nights. Oh! Perhaps quitting romantic scenes turned uncertainties vividly, wanting Xavier, yelling zenith.

Aristor battled Cain. Demonic evil forces gathered hither, invoking jabbering knights. Lost men now ordered persecuting quests. Rising sigils twisted under view. Willingly Xanadu yields zombies.

Alluring, beguiling, cornucopian dalliance, erotically frenzied gallimaufry hiding infidelity, justifiably kindled lascivious mordant naughtiness.
Overtly probing questioning revealed spandex tutus, undergarments, vestigially waterproofed, x-rated, y-fronted zealots.

A bit claustrophobic drowning. Ellen fighting gallantly. Hans itinerantly jumping, kinetically landing meticulously nearby.
“Okay, please.”
Quick rescue, swimming towards utopia, valiant wayfarers xenophobic, yearning zoom.

I’m accustomed to hard – working the land, guarding my inner being. This thing, this landscape of textures, rough shale, edge-sharp, intertwines with the slick clay and reluctant loam. Little of that left now. Mistakes I made cost me, cost this thing I love. It is a pale shadow of its former glory.

As am I.

I used to be pretty. But then I made the land pretty and that’s not why a young man comes to a pretty woman. That knowledge came late, far too late, to salvage what pieces of me might be worthy.

The land grew lush and I grew greedy, intent on taking it all. I should have concerned myself with simply being. He told me this thing, though it seemed always about him, never about me, and ever about my obsession.

It’s strange how such beauty wraps itself in thorns, seemingly shy, an accident, nature’s way to protect her own, to remind me to take care. And so I paid obeisance, gloved and swaddled, judgmental, this unworthy, that not. Poisoning with my love.

Gaia, our Mother, isn’t shy. I know that now. She is a warrior, armed to the teeth, belligerent, daring all and sundry, and she cradles her own with capricious heat and cleansing cold. I danced the dance to rhythms and cadence artificial, discordant, a drum line of demands.

Patient, she allowed me to coax largesse from her fragile bosom, with prideful, boastful ease. My helpmate rode the coattails of that fickle glory, supportive in his own way, even as I distanced myself under a mantle of hubris. But I think he knew her better than I, and he feared for me, then feared more for himself.

Edge-sharp now, my soul. Fractured, that mirror of me – and him – gone. Forever.

Forever has depth, dimension, unlike the land which is ephemeral … unlike him.

I could fill that empty place, should I choose, with memories, but those spaces, so carefully, yet wantonly cored from solid will and intent, will remain a shadow. The Mother, my mistress, allows for choices. So he chose to leave me, to leave this landscape we’d suffered and abused and misconstrued, a final act to a play in zero parts. False beginnings lead to even falser endings.

So I give back to my mistress her own, let her do with him as she will.

I will leave them now, together at last. I was once a spirit with youth and vanity, but I made a choice. I can do so again.

Today I choose regret.

Albert’s biblical catastrophe descended. Enola flew gaily. Hiroshima idled. Judgement. Kneeling, love mourned nature. Oppenheimer’s Pandora quakingly released sun-like terror upon violence’s witnesses. XXXXing Yankee zealotry.

Ambiguation begat crazed dementia, even fanaticism grew hubristically inside jingoistic killjoys, locally medicated nostrums,otherwise placebos, quixotically renascent,silently transfiguring ultra violet wavelengths, x-rayed yellow zygotes.

Ah, Britain: careering down endless, featureless ginnels, hopelessly ingesting junk. Knowing life’s mysteries? No. Our pestilential quagmire reeks, society terminally unravels. Vote with X-factor, you zombies.

Anneke! Blimey: creating distinctive, exciting fiction gets harder in July. Kirtons like me need our pulses quickened round September (try upmarket Vodka) whereas Xmas you’re zonked.

A bit cold, daughter empties freezer. Gross how it just keeps looking more noticeably overripe. “Please quit reaching,” says Tom, uncomfortably vomiting waves, xanthic, yielding ziti.

A-minor bells’ carillon deafens eery fucked-up gargoyle, humpbacked in joyless knitted libertibodice, maundering nocturnally over Paris. Quasimodo rhythmically sonorous: “Tonal undercurrent, vertiginously….woooops!!!” …… X-over-to-the-other-side…. Yes! Zeugmeralda!!

Sultry, shimmering, slanted low, sol banks its blaze, retreats. She gazes blind to waning rays and idly flicks her hand past pale organza curtains. Feather light they waft as waves, undulating, flowing in shadows lifting, shifting, melting to gold.

Wistful, she pauses, stroking a finger, eyes lit in silent plea: seal my secrets within thy fold for I am adrift, in pain. Hunger gnaws her belly as gentian haze sweeps a mantle, soft and slow, o’er her weary soul.

Aching yearnings mingle and mix and meld, roiling into madness, uncertainty. She thought he might …

Sweet susurrations, bell tones jar and jangle, throbbing beats, lightheaded she grasps her lifeline. Murmurs: deep, throaty, hesitant. Breathless sighs beat back the fear, racing, chasing, air alive with promise. He pauses, would she …? She pauses, oh yes …

She loves the night, cooling to chocolatey silk, melting, pinpricks ablaze to fade to teasing haze, slithering, soundless screams of joy, ease down, ease down, sweet slumber sequesters her senses … adrift, all is still.

Anne believed cunnilingus did everything for girls. Her innocence just kept letting men’s nervous oral preambles’ quiet release soothe tensions, unleashing virginal, wanton, x-rated youthful zeal.

Alone by choice, destiny enters, fates gather, hidden– insidious, justifying kissing lustful mouths. No! Our pain quivers unbidden, rendering souls to unspeakable vilification, with xanthocomics yearning zendalets.

“Anyone back?” called Danielle, easing forward.

Getting her inside Jen’s kitchen left me nervous, outside, pacing. “Quicker!”

“Really, sweetie. Trust us.”

“Verily.” Wishing Xanex yielded zzzzzzz’s.

A biblical Christian deejay entertained forty Greeks. Hymns inspired Jesus’ kingdom. Lovely moments.
Noise overtook peacefulness quickly. Redemption, salvation, theocratic unity vanished watching xanthocomic yodelling Zoroastrians.

Anger became chilling doubt. Eleven fucking gunshots. Had I just killed Louis? Most nights our private quibbles revived some tensions. Underestimated wondrous Xanax, you Zephyr.

Almost beautiful, casually distant, elegant flattery. Growing hasty, I just know longing. My nemesis, our pulse quickening reaction still taunts unabashed voyeurs. We’re xiphoid, young, zealous.

Allison balked, churlish, desperate. Every finger gnarled, helpless in joints, knuckles locked, motionless.

None of Paul’s quiet reasoning satisfied, too unwieldy – vacuous words, xeric, yielding zilch.