Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Egro Loder



aah, more,
aaah, plus,
aaaah, morbus,
sub rosa, roma,
moire'

the heft of the stone eye in his hand
before he cocked back his torso in a pitch
upon the score of the fence in the window
where the wound so brightly shone

healing beams
like a prosaicism
a lighthouse

squashed flat
like a disk

the london
of the tumbling
glowing pyramid

it gets washed over
with a singular inkling
and the multiplicandor

that rod
whose flexibility
is ever in question
by the lesser beings
in their greater facility

O Blue Badged Wonders...

haha

Say you are Northerners,
and I am a Tibetan mint farmer
living in Georgia
in 1853

and having built an identity
based on actual theatrical makeup
unknown in your time

I have no nose.
I have no eyes.

I am the actual
Etidorphan pharmacognosy
here to put the sprinkle
of i-beams
down through the burden

of defect's Roussel.

Dumb Door.
Great Shoji.
Kooky DMT think tank amphibianaut

let there be truce
between us

with the caveat
that I am god
and you are shit.

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.