Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Egro Loder

aah, more,
aaah, plus,
aaaah, morbus,
sub rosa, roma,

the heft of the stone eye in his hand
before he cocked back his torso in a pitch
upon the score of the fence in the window
where the wound so brightly shone

healing beams
like a prosaicism
a lighthouse

squashed flat
like a disk

the london
of the tumbling
glowing pyramid

it gets washed over
with a singular inkling
and the multiplicandor

that rod
whose flexibility
is ever in question
by the lesser beings
in their greater facility

O Blue Badged Wonders...


Say you are Northerners,
and I am a Tibetan mint farmer
living in Georgia
in 1853

and having built an identity
based on actual theatrical makeup
unknown in your time

I have no nose.
I have no eyes.

I am the actual
Etidorphan pharmacognosy
here to put the sprinkle
of i-beams
down through the burden

of defect's Roussel.

Dumb Door.
Great Shoji.
Kooky DMT think tank amphibianaut

let there be truce
between us

with the caveat
that I am god
and you are shit.

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.