Thursday, January 12, 2017

permanent bastard, profundity's perfumes

feminine jets need rouge
these damascene engine pastures shatter
for the plot hangs on spasmodic ear gongs
ants sluicing from the house flood
in a great barge
over the unlucky youth-sellers
the coughing man whose hirsute brain yawn
causes another knocking house wig to yawn
another leprachaun
to blow out a row of rectums laughing
at the offended
there is a single far-ness here which is aghast
a clunky eider-sprawl of the wise-sung
a zooming knot of thunking run as thinking
a furred little pilot for the heron
a gassy fencer hopping for eye-page
history for semiotic yetis yet
the wunches were indians who were words
and now there's no way to take the duck's bill
off the fat man
these buckteeth linger like smokes
and everything still just looks like signs
someone easing knight's paprika
into the overture saying
'what was this corner in the house for?'