"Let them do and undo, say and unsay. Whatever you decide together will be gospel."
from Teofilo Folengo's _Baldo_ (vol.1)Soggy Lepus!
or
Louvred Bosch, Is the bacteria castle of Cappodocia
the bureaucratic turtle person's private primrose?
I am lost. Lost without wife, without country, without
guidance, because I was not never no guide, nor goodness
without an aid de camp, or broccoli hearing aid
out-of-control side-of-head-wigging-thing.
I am "pressed hemp bone" toward almost Kafkaesque
plain underwear management. I am almost a Daddy
to many unruly sloppinesses giving eep eep brolenes.
A whole diorama of complex milk shavings
enters the side of my head. The ancient French Kings
must've smelled like milk shavings, but even now
I am talking idiotically to excellent sirens
whose bodiless ravens could be pedophilia
on an executive tie.
One good thing: Hyper-realistic cartoon buildings
can illustrate whole catalogues of balcony violence.
Also, tall models of both sexes seem like have come
to the skinny part of the movie when the credit
rolls by, "credit" seeming French and milky,
a small sticky semen where my mind used to be,
where yours used to be. I can replace
any Earth virus
with the life of the composer,
any Earth history
with the life of the Eohippus,
any equestrian, sad, or slow-paced drama
with the unfolding of multiple
ingrained policies of abrupt unsanctioned
unction
I forget of what this hammer dizz..
I find a piece of artifact in a grotto
called grotto.
Grotto called Grotto, are there many
praying animals inside your egg-like
dream rectum? I think we'd all better pray
for this clunky monkey sign drama dairy.
Came El, of large wad, came bag, of unending
WTF. Mutant Ninja Turtles could have a shrine,
and I would be there with the little turtles
of tiny town.
Brave Kappa,
I skip over some houses called Mozarteum,
then later hear an absurdly revving engine
after the lights have gone down, though
I hope the dawn will still move me anew
if I remember it can. I wish I was
a better person, but what can anyone
expect when one is seeking a wig
of flexible rubber hotdogs
in a world
primarily composed
of Zombie Baker Pin-ups.
I wish I was a Bratwurst person,
or simply a Bat person, I think
it would be interesting
to be a hovering hunchback
whose hump is a chlorophyll
leaf stomach
or
helium debauch eyeball
through which
ambrosial collaborations
might fester
in the perfect and tragic
and perfectly magic
penumbra
If you see a piano and singer
perched on a platform inside an angel
of trees
would you please
make a video and put it on you tube
for my wig of infinite rubber hotdogs.
