and we are rallying in the
ramparts the dreamer in its
wicker barque tosses
on its mattress of
grapes puce vhowl oat
and surd the scowl
of our crossing ova
we are the fur on golden antlers
growing from a transparent egg
velvet slippers
Charlie.
can't
can't
Kantharos
cant
seance
It is better to decline on some notions
of abstraction, Franz Klein, you unite what Kafka
cared for with a journalist's flaring nose trills
all camelid, Chinese, agasp to the starry interior's
narrative, that no move, flow foam muffery.
The camel saddle is soft.
Can you gorge shoulders.
Can you connect the TROJAN HORSE
to cigarette in the mountains.
High atop the valley
sits the oracle's black iron sphere,
in these cold climes, that single fire
reveals only a single face,
its black cloak
hiding twisted inner animals.
I'm reading the story of an uneducated
Nightwatchman who captured the hearts and minds of millions.
We made need a donor
when the wrist worms
begin to appear.
doonier.
paint.
old yeller.
George Bernard Shaw!
The eminent Astrophysicism I presume!
This HOIL
must ride a stingray.
The theater an elaborate cabinet based on the corucopia
floating in space, its drawers,
PARADIGMS!
Pshaw!
This is the story of the machinery of narrative.
It's an uplifting horror crushing all disputes
to its radiant unfolding.
I am made part.
I am made.
Earth.
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Irrony Observes The Earthing.