No Use, As My Heart Is Shielded By A Cellphone

And last night I dreamed
that Sir Thomas Urquhart
came accourting mee!
~in the manner of eros
to psyche, but as a jest,
alas, for his mind was
too fast, for all I felt
was a chitter in my bones,
as if my sternum had been
grafted to a cellphone,
and the screen faced out
to show a scarab rolling poop
along the path of a triangle..

Oh yes, but, it might also be said,
that in the wooly recesses
of my head, though slight,
"I felt the ermine thrummin'.."

innocent lights

Alas, he said to me:
Cur he, Re coomb!
~and then in unspeakable
doom let forth his
thinking balloon, or some
random selections from the
Orthogonospherical table
(rushed into song, and razed
of their hieroglyphick categorie):

VALAM MENEP
UN ALAM
TORB TAG NU MIR

VALAM MENEP
UB AMEN
NAG MU TORP MYR OR
TORP MU LAG MYR

VALAM MENEP
UPH ANEP
TUL SAG SU SYR

Uchedezexam! I cried
in amazement, but lied,
my beetle still boogering
shit. But how could I bother
his perfect dream, to wed the honor
of language to geometry, a feat
only now being prised apart
from its nut by the learned birds
of neurology? I could not, for
his path was sound, and like
a song it found, a home in my
modest hand-held file reader..

Alas...
He is a bith like a
gothick Chaldaean, and
who could resist those
cuffs of vibrating
amoebic periplasm?