Friday, January 31, 2014


carefully the constellation formed
that if religion were a toy, or god (om's other),
and the child was insane, or a hobbyist,
then the fallen orders of architecture
remain forever a thin
of a grande rune
or rheum

for hope and prayer remain
the pastorality of the post-oral
charging in the shadow
of the great kazoo

At one time I was known for fashioning
veristic busts of pure turquoise
whose nimbuses
elected manneristic doodlings
to surfaces

if gas is rhapsody
then kitchen work
is the final dream
of joy

a note from the fool and his sceptre:
no chance operations were harmed in the making of this phillum,
as no nous gos fourth frommit!


it was then that Typhoid Henry appeared
his hand on his snouth
and wearing green felt like a fig,
there can be no lesser meetings,
every holiday
must sensate
the ideal preparation.

It's a real picture's life
in the whole universe
of sound.

I first met Mallarme'
at the witches gaming club, and how he loved
the pitched whimpering
of Satan's armpits.

and why not 
rīdad fliogad helpad brekad
sprekad farad waldad dōmiad
mahliod seggiad

the thoughts now visible
exuded a floppiness
a stackedness
and windows were their staple

Dawn reads on mi.

the precious infection!
the perfection of precision!
all I see is studdering!
the fool's system.

I tried to overcome juxtaposition
but the palimpsestina followed me every

sleep sleep
our punctum's indifferans
tosses tosses
as we return to wavehood's

I arrived like a toy
only to find that the kitchen
would simply ignore me!

I was not evil,
and you were not correct,
but in that you were I,
and like Satan,
I remained so ever full
of toys.

You wanted Buster Keats,
so there I was, your private baker,
at the Mermaid Inn.

Melanie Klein disproved net neutrality
years ago, but her pleasure at doing so
has remained basically evil.

I refuse to work for a hairly little sea-pig!
Help me get herm up, my little he-he's..

Hell met blanks
by the sea line.

Wild sociopathy
is often misunderstanding.

If I am the object of your desire, why must your subjection
be so muted by the mundane?

Thick tea breathes all leather
to friend fortune.

This was the last time I spoke to friday,
and the last time I shaved
until the ends of the earth
were splitting hairs. &
Just below the surface of reflection
where the Stehaufmännchen begins
the ridiculous sublime
can only suspect
a generative atavission.

The Chest of Keats
is a paraclete.

the only taboo
is consciousness.

Were you aligned with the broken toys,
or the bright unfettered TRAHERNES!

It was then that our drawing went to war!
we might have been a toothy smile that day, or
acorns dancing in the flowers.

You've really become such a beautiful
warring of angles.

I found a white rabbit inside my stomach!

these hands that molded brains, this whistle
made of bread
which clogged a window

I'm having mercy, strumpters, and Colassus!
What'll You Have?

It's been a long time since I was on key..
Now the gravy wonders me,
and I am simply gridlocked
in blissful orders.

And now, rocks, I offer you a single stamp to divide between yourselves,
and with all the other rocks, wherever they are.

Will you live in my plant too?
What spiders a pilgrim more than a stone gravy-boat?

Yes, I play the wooden saxophon.
Its mother was the dearest lamp
of brine field coulomb.
We're hair inside toys.

We're flies!

I only despise what I do not know, 
and I know everything.
But nothing can accept this.

If the doorknob
were an eyeball
then Pasolini might still
be alive, or he might be
a passing line.

Ferdinand flavored!

What am I thinking?
Just look in my hand...

if you were a poet
but didn't noet,
would the song be any different?

yes, yes, it's strange,
but the milk softens the thread as we sing it up 
to the iron mongers
that build the singers.

I would like to dedicate this passage
to your works, MISS FANNY PHLANEUR!

Betty Darling,
blah blah blah blah blah.
the vacation from reason is boundless.

I get it now!
I am a fly!

The sword in the stone resort was much frequented
by the toy makers.

I've fashioned an incredible devisive toy!

ichneumond stirring lots as the stylus drifts beneath the portichaos

chime loiters - in catabolic the imperative
it brought
i'm sorry but dislocate
in cheek

gape amplified and dogged flat

ingraft paid i thought of isomers 
and the defoliation acid
acid impress
a differ gush fit transact

it was curtailed, we lost subjects in the work to encompass ingraft

pneumonia starlight
Erik H Rzepka

chime parapets or if dynamic dancing mobiles of chimes then silent porcelain masks dragging fecund chime beards across black snow whole poem'd in grapes whose ligatures lounge odalicht-lichen'd for if generosity rumages ragugae in vestigiality's coxcomb bruise then fleshy purple eyebrows will raise these hairy titanic verdures

The Comte de Saint Germain, the Wandering Jew, and Donkey, or Burro, are all metaphors produced by the Society of Secret Semiotica aka IN THE KEY OF DAWN..

It could be the pageant
has lost its way in the wilderness
of toys, like a meteor.

As you are not naked,
I am not naked.

to my machine pants,
I am a fly.
Is Open.


still just trying to sound it out.

The hyphen
is the world tree.

I can dance with your neck!

Is it true that Holbein the Younger designed an iron hyphen which was held aloft over a marionette herm by means of a pulley, or did Erasmus design it, and HtY only illustrate it? Why MUST THE WHOLE BEAN BE IN PRAISE OF FOLLING?
(say it chairfulluy to urself)

I am a hyphen,
and I am legion,
and I am legions of hyphens.
I am the 12th knight
which rummages
the truce.

I'd forgotten how to spell
debacle again:

o my blind chattering eros,
you've got mail!

Now that I'm nude, they won't recognize me
as a barbarian. I know I'd never recognize them
as boundary stones.

Everything belongs
to the limit tradition.

Everything belongs
to the limit condition.

The Contemporary Art World preserves the limit tradition's condition with 
its-classical-writ-of-renaissanc-amid-evilry in the display of its fundamental (toyish)
de idiota inquirendo
which was passed over by 8 honorary

let this screw
like Grock.
Let this be your toy

i cant sea the rhymes for all the tree imps!

I've wriddlen thousands of letters to the tarbaby, but it never writes back

They neutralize all your most important thoughts
that make their toys broken.

Here is am I
The Priest who always has to run down the line.
My millitarry is a little diffident.

I don't expect you to know the ode,
just BUY IT!

A magnetic field.
A day in the life
of an angel.

My hands are tongues,
and my feet
are covered with eyes
which are nostrils.

Welcome to the CITY OF TITANIUM!

a runny boloney huh, wellm rutabaga shoelace to you too, now where is that pack of finches..

we'll remain engaged and serious, the midsummer knight's dream is almost finches.

you always write the chairs.

I'll stick to cant
(write the sea hairs)

Madonna and Child

Philosoby finch!
I awoke from bottoms' dream
at the bottom of a, well,
the bottom of a boot well.

and then a horde of flinches flew
from the eyes' bird.

you don't have the balls to make no distinctions.

I've many balls to my name,

I knew that Daniel had tamed the lion in that way, by telling stories.
But it was a white lion,
and a black lion.

Let's make a little heartbeat! SHALL OUI?!

Now that you've seen me, you can translate the PLANE
into a a plate of joy!
(see toe, or toy chair)


That's eggzagglea WOOD EYE SLED...

Once again

the fish-sauna-garage's balcony has refridgerated cuisine
waiting to service all concierges working at reasonable prices
for new administration
(of falling chairs)

I never pretended to understand.
I didn't understand.
Is sin a sign?


Once upon a time...

I am as though the same myself.
I am as thought myself.

Thinking is so tired of thinking
about thought.

generativity remains contraversional

talk to the statue, buster..

The first clown cannot play the saxophone, but he hires a second saxophone playing clown who stays inside a box. This is the box.

is a penis.

If I were the red terror, you
would be a white banana candle.

is annoys
you adore.

If every fool wore a changeling, we should all be