Rosemary is Sacred

You picked up the phone and whispered:

"Rosemary is sacred."

.

and waited.
You left the phone aside.

What's that in Ro's hands? Epilepsy.
In this manner: coming-to-town, feeding her lava body, with a verb in her mouth she tries to whisper "do it again" but fails.

She needs to be put aside as well.
But (out of necessity) you couldn't forget what she said and how she looked,
and that "Beauty of the Curves" crap.

"Try to think of her as the Hooker-of-misfortune"
Leticia said, cards up-in-the-table.

We left Bureau of Customs and we headed north.
You insisted and I insisted "the devil was at Rosemary's grave that evening."
You nodded whilst I though you were turquoise then, today you are green oil.
But you didn't trust the friend that I am.

Nuclear, the words swayed and formed the following:

"Nuclear, belly-upped children are lining up with foreshadows in their black little hands."

.

"This is the city, we have arrived" I said.
You didn't go there just to return untested, that was clear.
As the bed spoke in tongues, we sat outside in plain dark, near Delaware's View.

We started reading a book called "Inside The Hands Of Rosemary Steam"

"But" was the former word. A douche, but a saint she was.