sunday o serious fates in the grim chess at the top of the table the king is telling one of the monkeys who makes up the knight's body to stay away from the edge of the world of checkered clouds
monday as if in the heavy thick rosebushes there existed some martial perimeter for even the rookery with its queen looking pale as a worm might fall to some black rogue bishop or beard tuesday in a land of tiny miracles these clockwork footsoldiers humm their wallbuilding tactics like a song the castle of black roses is assaulted by a white praying mantis ridden by a crystalline emblem light pulsing through his navel wednesday this king an ivory tusk is a slow mad antenna who pitter-patters in the gaping hole of her screaming vacuum i lick the wound between the bishops one knight is an inky tumulus of ants or gods or wordwinds thursday picket slope grid the worm velvet monocle should spin in the tower a kind miserable set of functions gleaming marble logic a cold cool mind this piano garden dies never figuring the drawing of pawns friday they leap before diagonals dropping and firing a purple wave of undine froth should rise to its idol chin a red laughing mouth something quiet and majestic a box for little adults their mummified play the harsh chaotic angles lingering in haunches saturday o serious fates in the grim chest heaving now sleeping queen would your pure destiny awaken the perfect string unfolding in the actions of a broader hand and can this minstrel trespasser gather an audience from your doomed minions whose lined faces are gridded with thorny codes
