Friday, February 6, 2009


The Lord is thy Shemp head, Thou shalt not haunt,
for he maketh mi to lyre-down in green jellybeans
with the Aunt of your mother, whose antennae are slender
and straw-like, and which receive signals from the ether
that sayesth:

Eshep too tawway
foomi ach mitlerleben
pu blicheinen apoclastic
kiepen on tructrin

On a clear day, a jaw-bone covered in eyes
can see for meters without number, er well
there is a number, but in the aery bliss
of great and towering cliffs

we find sleepy sugary gods
in soft egg-like pouches
near ruined and sacred springs

their armpit accordion thistles
whine such terricloth and mowgli
such movement of a whirr wind gully
by golly

whippoorwhills get in the tedium
and rasp about
lucky as an orange turkey pipe
smoked by a green-skinned
pointy eared pilgrim

O what might have been!

I see Amanda Cart[W]right's ass.
It is communicating something:

accidental dimples
like weird underwater temples
just attract hunky voodoo noughtsie doodads
with scuba-gear
and Aristide Maillol hovering
in a stolen torso volumatrix

or the sweet Kiepenkerl of Münsterland
peddling sugar tumors

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.