Friday, April 21, 2017

joy



 and in my gumbs
 sartoris
 flags in the dust
 up high toward the decay
 dressed to kill
 and then afterwards
 where the theater turns inward
 on its outer self:
 and then came seven strangers
 6 were leavened
 one was fine (a tale)
 how the polished orb in fog
 was made to secure
 no say
 as prompted by tide hunger;
 the small urges
 in limit to their counties
 all the small infinities
 which do no hubris
 to the drawing
 the inflation of the doll
 over the weirder doll
 the joy !hwiche! interposed
 in the exchange
 of the hyperanimal
 ohne Zweites / ohne Spreu
 virgil beatrice
 whatever common roads
 take us around the viewing platform
 of the magical illness


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