Thursday, September 24, 2009

Raymond's Ragman.

blank virus to n-surmounted SS:

antlering sun-memes, when in the course of
loa-loa obvious back-porch porsche, twelve
radiant disciples hourly mouth the months
from the mountains of the moon, telescopic
cephalopodium. granted, layering hymns to
dorothy hamill marks whatever is looking sky-
ward to walk, the walking pelvis a sense of
keen design not half velvet where for 1200
years the empire of venice dominated the
one-armed pirate's dinner conversation between
the sheets the scintillating and effervescent
body of its young and carefree slave, soon
to be brought to tears under the stoic ragas
of the tattooer's phrasings:

Whatsoever is wrong with me, is through your own

Whatsoever is right in kind, the wordless space of mind
echoing its long dead delirious miners.

Whatsoever is moved in dread, the amygdallium spread,
space of geode, the fig, the flowers or dreams within.

Short stories stir along the banks of the Grand Canal,
but these special masks are opaque and vibrating airs,
heavy air, like a lace of liquid stone.

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