Pronogginfry

Literature
is a hair crown, a
temporal decoration
used for the inner spaces
whose outer silence is
sometimes read
by ladies or men
of the drawing room
as rudeness.

We need something to say,
something to think, or even do.

Literature
is a hair crown, a
method of giving
these odd vegetables
of the celestium
something to quod
in the long unglittering
hall, in the architectural
stupor that is boxing with images
called monotaur meets the minimart
among the cranes of the springtime
and sacrificial youth, the wheels
of turquoise whose transparent
tires of inflatable salamander
skin paper roll over, roll over
silence and its improper
who roar, vacuisinart.

Literature is all our mother, all
our terrible sky of wretched flaming
goat heart city gamboling gait of fading
jays, what hart meets a jay in the be loud
clod, what hair crown emits electronic larvae
looking burl ives among the bermuda triangle.

Literature
is a har croon, a harpoon,
a cupidical authrodizziact
for coulompulations among
celestiain't apostlicarries.

Stephen King
drooled on a draft.

Weyr Search.
Weyr Search wanton bodies.
Weyr Search wanton fibbinachos.

Glass taco
exhibits a salad
of nudebeast.