Monday, June 10, 2013

You Will See My Ass Moses Parted With a G-String of Butterflies



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pa 'ntyna sutikittenpanty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kitten
panty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kitten panty nasuti kitten panty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kittenpanty nasuti kitten

yark yark

the novel rolls barking out its minion stain(s
strains at the leash least leas of becoming

minne yawns
love is multitudinous

mufti attitude
mind bark

rough wing boat sample to rub
rub your minimal tongue you rust
upon the fetish glimmer warning

grammar is a tree
for hairy bears
their mites in scares
there hardihoodi woody deem them late
for bells

we make it legi mittate'
gol
gal
gaol
log

logos written
where the non-linear line eins to teech

sweeveeriol
finlancken looterong
buillbihein its hole
no tile to quarter the torture

imagine its caprice in finding
the fake iron mainden

like a tall tree cathedral opening up
the inner core that tortured morn
its a lovely fountain all the way up

mosaics and ferns
and little squirrels nibbling radishes in the tiny nipple balconies
o young turks in hides do hide about perched like perch skin parrots
on crystal spikes

the world is a poverty
before the true holiness of spectacle
for if spectacle were the holy purpose
what bright faced world it should be

twisting singing trees

flying chime chimera dragons in a hurliburnous of flappy things
frank are the ninjata descending

acrobats
should be our priests

non solemn yammering
dung bells
seeping 'kind sadness'
into dreary dull

volumes

taste the letter
like a little mica spark held in a flannel mollusc hand
kissed by jade cobwebs still pluckflusser
in pussenmuss

kitten will have their heads shaved by diamond
tear drills

ytou
your foster parent eyes
i speak not plainly
but as the plain

you cannot dispute
I am the land

I am the land
and this is what I say

I don't need your whistle
your legitimation

I am the old folk home itself
dry eyed

and sun buttered
crisp and green and levitating
upon the valley's orange smoke lace