I love the little bakers.

I love the little bakers
as they cluster in the wall.

Their beaks are chrome like
distended bone, and they ohm-out
as shorts.

I love the bakers, their flippers
slick as owl's eyes, and tossing pizzas
that somehow hover forever, signifying
philology's lost art among the 'brothers'.

bread hearse cannot clue the oven's simple
magesty. the post card is harder to make
when the mortar and pestle stop thrumping.

fump! fump!
aaaah, mine gott!

I glue ten-shousand ping-pong balls together
in a wandering crutch-like ode. I solve all
the world's problems with a lamp-goiter attached
to bread and helium sac.

I love the little bread loovers,
how baguettes let the light through
and braguettes get brackets ala

[].

I love the bakers. The bakers are infiltrating
the walls of the tennis center. The bakers are
invading the aquariums. The bakers are filling
the amusement parks.

amusement perks.
amuse meant sparks.

friction.

Some fan fiction.

Diction, where it begins to rise,
and where the line begins to fall.

Now that is an economy of means.

As the cache' of image falls, the
cache' of word begins to rise, and
verse's vice.

Bread is nice,
and people bake it.

Cornbread
can go into buttermilk.

It is so easy to die,
when aporia is always out of its factory
lounging, taking it easy.

The product is made, and it is eternal.

The aporia machine
cannot be stopped
by bread soldiers,
and every man, woman and child
just gives up here,

once they've made baker.

T is the AMMO
of the fee-fey-foe-foo-thumb
b-achers.

ache is the cousin of ach (tung)
in the land
of continuance aka

"kunst's nuance"
as "the will to entrain"

old mother wonder.

STOP. GO NO FURTHER.
FOR HERE ENDS SENSE AND NON_SENSE

BOTH.

here we enter the

NARR[G]W)ALL