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community building | gender & sexuality

An Illicict Gardnerers Appeal to Force

An Erotic tale of a gardeners method of healing Narcissistic abuse through guerrilla gardening.
An oversized Holly disguised as the King of eyesores drinks a bitter a sharp leaf tree. Emarld green skin and toxic red eyes hide a knotty and stuborn trunk. Standing tall as any evergreen on the block and hoarding a fraction of the sun. Desperately needing the hands of an attentive Gardner to cut into the ruby eyed ,emarld green,thick knotty stem prickly way post to prominence. A condemned shadow trespasses on voided territory. A manipulative omnipresent darkness reacted to this illegitimate necrosis with secreting a wayward crooked rain that smelled of a clear toxic sap and oily urban neglect that left a taste of molded pine in the mouth. A Death ritual for King Alfred is underfoot. Burying the root of a poisonous seed that scorches a provocative impression on its untreated victims. A neophyte of stillness is laying the groundwork for the burial of a wild hybrid with salacious intent. Hearing only the sound of the rare sleepy car driving over weeping pavement and inflamed panting of sod being stretched and teased. The frigid air was the only comfort to the ravenous mania of a furnace imprisoned in the flesh. Spring was threatening a challenge to the fertile ground. The clouds disappeared into the night like the smoke from a cigarette under a lamp post in a pitch black night. After time the holly tree was shaped to allow the sun's rays to reveal the pagoda built to be a plaything of an ambivalent wild species seized without permission. When the labor is over the new dawn will deliver castles in the air and the inescapable consequences of a chance encounter
Carved out from the boundary between public and private space are two erect and voyeuristic trees. One is a dogwood with a base covered in joyous feathery neon moss and a leggy Japanese Cherry standing over a pool of red clover and showing off its new formed buds. Winter wasted no time walking out on these two nubile hardwoods. The trees shared tangled roots and a dormant domestic science, dwelling in a sterile ditch on a neglected street. The trees are paralyzed witness to a sorry backyard affair that reduces chaos to plain disorder. They fantasize of having tongues long enough to suck the tangy nectar of the Golden Harvest. Frozen in the maidens hush of a prime mover aggressively pulling the hair of the habitat with an impartial zeal that pestered the trunk of the eye catching dogwood. The wayward main stay ignored the slender timber and filled up the nostrils with the smell of moist soil before falling to his knees to stare at the bottom of an oversized paper white pear shaped bulb. The tuber looks back with flaunting eyes that suggest a reward for the labor of its criminal charm. It only took a whiff of February's Gold to rally the cells to urgency to peel back the pedal pushers. Small garments cling comfortably around snow white astragals. The seedsman teases the center of the drenched worked up patch until the mound is an open and visible scar. The perennial stands bent and ready to be gouged by an immovable impaling tool when a raindrop of nectar falls from its core and splashes on bare feet of a bewildered grower. The mover gives no time for the flower of life to taste the salty green air. When the greenskeeper briefly pauses to hold the intoxicating scent of caramel covered challah bread stuffed in the boots of well-worn Spanish leather. It's a salacious scent of dirty clean that arrests the faculties, revives the constitution and bonds into the memory bank. Manhandling the sensitive clustered cilium that hangs from the sugared almond an unlawful landscaper maneuvers around the backside with looming force to unearth the burrow with a well-built hand tool. The enthralled paper white callous feral makes a noise of a humming weaver's loom. A sound mixed between a bumble bee and cat purring. Switching positions to its most comfortable place to be buried under the weight of a winded stalwart. To the perfect angle to swallow every drop of the overflowing glaze of the sun. A sunnier place to assault the innocent with your toxic and witty manipulation. A room where you will admired by all with your artistic gifts and elitist humility. The indecent fertile conditions have been amended and the only choice left is anonymous desertion. A rheumatory back with the posture of a wounded bear is in your field of vision and you taste freedom from your empty host. No longer in danger from your ultimate potency, Innumerable cycles of the season reduced to an apercu. A botany of reflection is the cultivated reflex that can't be removed from this tiny spring glory. Limits of control have been breached and a new dawn brings another adventure of self-acceptance. A bloated toxic parasite that can't resist its unrelenting creative disturbed visions. Lily whiteness milkiness and black eyed susan's eyes haunts this frosty morning and the sulfur smell of the ghost of your lies is dissipating. No need for the groundskeepers anymore you will thrive. Your shy, reclusive and deserving attitude are the tools for this blossoming grandiose shoot. A charmed circle of sage, succulents and ice queen sunflowers is planted to praise a narcissus that deserted the greenhouse to pursue vanity full time. Labored movement carries the clandestine landscaper forward over a hill arrested by the sun. The bitter choice of neglect carries this gardener 1000 from home with nothing better to do but invoke new boundaries to carve and defile. A garden awaits free from unmonitored amounts of tyranny and species inequality.

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