Seven vexes, #110

An assignment from Carol and Jilly (you crazy women) *clickety*

Our sons run a race,
sure as sure waves
run on. Our sons curse
as women race over
our naive sons.
Our sons cuss as women
vex our sons, morose
as a curse, worse
as a wave over our morose
sons, an immense wave
over our sons.

No one races over,
aces warm, arms sure,
sure as an arms-race,
our sons run as scores
rise, scores of sons run
as men, as someone
waves in our immense
sons. Our sons wave on
as morose men curse,
raise scores, vexers
as we once were.

Our sons race on
in our minors, minor
runners on waves as
announcers announce
a view, a muse, a
race over our women.
Women as carers, women
as sure cures. Curse
our muses, our women,
our waves, our semen. Our men
raise our sons as scores.

Men announce more.
More more more. More
war, more immense war.
Our sons race over,
our sons, on cue, race
over as in war. Curses,
curses, our women
muse, our women snore,
morose as our men
announce our sons
are no more, no more.

No one announces
our immense mews,
announces vexers
of aces on rivers,
six/seven. On rivers
six/seven vexes
our aces, waves
in our curses, waves
in our naive sons
on immense rivers, run
as vexers in war.

Our women vex our men,
our men snore, our women
curse, curse our semen,
curse our snores.
Our women mew on,
crave norse men,
as our men, career
men, race on over
our women. Our
women crave more
as our men snore.

On our mezzanine
canvas, our curses,
sons, our curses, men,
our curses, muses,
our curses, women.
Sure men announce
more war, announce
our women, our minors,
our sons, scores on scores.
Our men announce
an immense war.

No one races over,
no one curses, no one
curses our new course.
We, morose as a wave,
snore, announce no new
courses, no new canvas,
no new aims. We
secure a rumor,
noise, news, an SUV,
announce we crave
more and more.

Our women mew on,
morose, curse over
our snoring men, cuss
our no more sons.
Our women wave
as our men arrive
overseas, wave
in our caves
as immense wars
run on, as our sons,
our sore sons come.

Our sons are souvenirs,
norse vexers, waves,
semen, aces, muses,
canvasses, as we were,
cues and announcers.
Our sons are miners
run over in races,
curses on our men.
Our sons are our men,
our men raise scores, more
runs, more races, more war.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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