months ago (but still now)

The days  of yore
                Crumpled up, thrown down
                                    Post-op mona lisas
                                   
Lie amongst artifacts        toenail clippings and    
                       
                                    And empty wrappers


Their physical location is their only truth.

No, their physical location to one another from a certain angle at a certain time through the lens of a particular human being under self-induced or environmentally-induced pressure to value a certain metaphorical and allegorical schema is their only truth.


The days of yore are shredded mozzarella cheese on tacos we eat and never remember they used to be cheddar on cheeseburgers.  The finely shredded cheese used to be parmesan on pasta.  This very same brie on toasted cracker used to be asiago in a bagel.  The days of yore never existed in any particular way and neither does cheese.  Consistency is an optical illusion.  Like color.  (is a benign illusion merely an effect til it kills?) 

The days of yore hire very expensive lawyers.  The days of yore’s lawyers have very large penis’ to fill whatever huge void the vaginas of Today and Tomorrow (and So On and So Forth) may find.  The days of yore’s vaginas are tween tight and can please (and be pleased by) the tiniest Today and Tomorrow (and So On and So Forth) penis.  The days of yore file motions and bend over and get bent over.  The days of yore fuck the prosecutor.  The days of yore fuck the fore(wo)man. The days of yore fuck the judge.  There is no difference between the days of yore and any of these people (things).

The days of yore don’t exist.

The days of yore don’t exist.

The days of yore are only The Days of Yore, proper noun.

And The Days of Yore are only whittled away at days, or selectively demo’d and added on to, days.

The Days of Yore are jagged barbs, fears, or, worse yet, dreams revamping reality in their image like a jealous tyrant raining down. 

The Days of Yore are bastards.  Asexually produced too.

The Days of Yore need to hang themselves by their intestinal lining and find themselves and follow suit.  Each fear, each dream, dying, leaving only the previously wagging dog tail.