October 2012
1 post
won't we what we when we
could have made
a wilder world with nothing
but a wet noodle of my dearest
friends, the sabers rattled like icicles
in the end of time and all the cold weather coming
down. Tell me the serious blow, lend me the proprioception
you always had in you but never exposed. I’d speak softly, I’d
teach you the differences of the put it in. Have you
got a weapon to tilt the wet smithee.
...
September 2011
11 posts
July 2011
8 posts
June 2011
4 posts
Scpit
May 2011
4 posts
April 2011
1 post
March 2011
31 posts
I found nothing but dirty trikes and mounds of stilled rain. This was last year. The memory haunts me.
A dirth unexpected produced loud bolts of yes ma’am. so it goes in times of shame. Big bolts unexpected from the heavens again. Yesterday I ambushed a flower, snapped it wetly from its stem. It seemed almost to click. At the sun, I held it and loudly Called, wake you monstrous deity— A lock of your hair: I’ll clone you bitch. My laboratory epic, My science sound My...
then we found the marshal and we gladly apprised him melons on the brook melons on the brook after all of these days without a drop of wetness in the various foods we ate
i won’t lie we toodled
toodledee
melons!
toodledah
melons!
we pantomimed a brass band. i played tuba though even faking my fingering was indiscrete...
It’s not a new assignment, it’s an anvil with a pink bow around the skinny neck where it’s bolted to the floor.
Thank you. It’s very kind.
It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.
No, it’s great. I’ve needed an anvil. I have a few things around here that I’m just dying to get to with it. I can really use it now. You know. This is the time in...
Chimney slide, houses in the hosiery, the factory’s blackout sky in down chunks. Elsewhere, thick yellow. Doorjambs joint-cracked with winter. Icicles like poor mouths even if the Rhododendrons blushed off to the cheeks a soft rose. In my pockets and other pockets, we found bundles of careless string. We wove in the spare time the absent sun provided, wove neck bags and draw-string...
Dangerous holiday slumlord kitsch I’m on to you I’m on to fucking you You odor of slimed turnip wastecan You mouth of dim sex You hesitated tastefully sure But I haven’t glutted my robot void or turtled any of my spectacled ties yet.
So patience. Patience, please.
