by Reb Livingston
Diminished Prophecy 13:1
She will retool poems in hems lined with pompoms—jump as I retrieve absurdity from my phonetics. I will also gift her the morphine jar.
Diminished Prophecy 13:2
I wallowed as the lapse opined the worst of my sense and seams. Again, I hurted whatnot like a bedsore lingering creeper with a choice in void. I complied! I mistook menswear for prayer and believed it a united course. Thought writer spelled Beau, giver of gown and notice. He swallowed a cauldron he mistook for a comma.
Diminished Prophecy 13:3
Wedded to the lapse, Apron shunned the ordeal, I favored shunning the limpness, speaking the creeping prayer: "Be gone lisping grayness! I already complied!" When the next united course cased this place, it found a wreckage. Its rhymer gimped pout, a tapered mouthpiece from mirth: a rhymer discharged and abhorred.
Diminished Prophecy 13:4
When the lapse aproned the corner sequin, it hurt to absurd, a lingo shaded louse, "Weirdness!" I shook and somewhere ignored a bland sack. Its rhymer trolling threadbare and scathed shorthand. I hurted soundly like a void bluetongueing, "A consort of repeat is worth about a daisy for my hankie. Do not damn the recoil and hemline!"
Diminished Prophecy 13:5
And off went the lapse aproning the forgiving sheets, I, in turn, hurting the rhyme as forgiveness failed to adhere, "Toilsome!" Somewhere I took a fishtail by force. Its rhymer claimed depth and history with a sidestep. We were shriven and banter, our forgiveness lacking worth. Shilling by word and smile, beaklike and worse.
Diminished Prophecy 13:6
In yen for an earnest kindred, a glint, a gem, a reflection, a mine minder, an esteemed knave hinged in cadence flung from a smocked canon: she crawled to the canon and the smock, "Scrawl to me and reply faithful, you who is new, simmering on the brimstone from bloodbad and lapse. For the graveday of bloodbad has curdled. Hurray for meadow sprung from wastepoem!"