Dream Plated Towne

Dream Plated Towne
by Pat A Physics

It is so good, the things we dream in our perfect leisure towns
that haven’t broken under terrible plastic hoof prints. Spreading
our hands wide for the millions of cocoa seeds that presume
destinies of virgin esophagus dermal properties. Ben Franklin is
pumping his fist into the air as we lift ourselves onto the
escalator to the level that tells us what to think. What sort of
tile could we buy, where could we leave our swimsuit for drying,
how can we prepare veal? Sunsets have the volume turned up
really loud. We leave them portions of chocolate on the screaming
faces that crinkle up crush the bottlecap like a brim lipped drink toward
the dew dappled morning. We love pah pah like we love the rainbows that
fall into the cul-de-sac. Berriecrests with stems, stamens of liontusk,
pedals flowing for the bluest fairy that has skipped the breakfast
that we just bought for her at the Pingo Doce up the street.

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