milk, in black face, with blue cameo, the blenching

\dogs turning back, now fuddled
again by the quarrying
mute, and



they appear to be sucking
its head through
their hats, the
gray candle must sthwisthst
through the nets
to become its final mate
in the dance of
debt

totally artichoke
a stoned booger head
comes out the side
of the llama

a good llama
is good enough
for 7 wives
or at least two

to blow his nose
on the llama
a little jazz song
you remember
crystal penguin
in its mirrored
organ duvet

go up now
inside the bust

grab the control stick
and turn the head
first right then left
then check pitch
and yaw, you
can look straight up
her crack, it's an
adolescent fantasy

cupola tism
all the homes of the officials
look like breasts
and could ordinarily catch fire
but they are shaded

where the dell meets the glade
by a kind of soft shoe
in a hand
a long thin hand like a palm
which goes out to everyone
in need

they are all in debt
with minds like
cement mixers

nothing comes out
out of the closest

saucer

when inversatile antennæ
have neither a terminal
nor a lateral bristle--->

"We hunted for five
of the most rusé tennis balls
I have ever known. They
changed colour according
to their surroundings."

It hands you
the bill of plague.