A Queer Opening
A woman alleged; a woman in the same
hall. They've been written the same When two heads are shaped, they're chic They're not coming towards you. What he's saying's that, the Women of Europe, Ophelia Catherines on Katherines, and Helen, weren't stand- ing in the window, waiting for their explor- ers to die. ‘I can't see’, she said; ‘to be fair he said, Circular Quay. An emotion, a frog, a stick of chewing gum. Lay down under a ficus, get up. I waited for the wheel- chair. ‘This is the dream.’ We begin to rebe- gin. That fossil with a cream handkerchief and fragments of a borrowed sandwich. There was a hex in the sky; I noticed a severe lump of alternate blueness, that looped around a welded scrap. To realise that: falling down obscures the act of kissing, however large. You must combine with Play School to bring that scene in; you ask me what's between these two wo- men, one active in wifery, not like the other, arrayed in the nonhuman. An ar- ray like a sparkling mood, a come-get-me of feathers. We've travelled far from sympathy: that's the point. Sympathy's the centre from which one self-taught tribe wars with another. Words stand up a violin becomes a shed. Eyes play in the shed and the flowering plane. Black appa- ritions on vertical pillows; obliqueness making a blind spot for police with its tongue Its signature's on my back
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