Khaki Nut Soup

Like a messy desk which carries
an empty oval frame, a face with a
pencil for a nose made a drawing
inside the hollow glass columns
that form'd that very desk's own legs,
Vira Silenti.

You could see a soup bowl descend
from a hole in the ceiling,
Vira Silenti.

You could see it come to rest
on the ridiculous thigh pillow pads
informing your pajama pants,
Sira Virenti.

There are soup elevators
in the legs of your desk,
and your desk wear pants
to hide them.

You are a hole.
A hole full of soup.
Elevator soup, wearing
a straw hat
which wears a straw head,
a tiny little woven head
stuffed with tissue paper,
it's ewe dead,

and made into mutton
like the nutty tomb.

Almond.

Tinto Brass is having dinner
inside a statue of a negro.

He's eating a microbial silence.
He's editing by proxy.
He's taking off the clothes of a chicken,
and folding them inside the elevator.
He's doing origami with chicken clothes.

He can make a chicken
with lamb's wool.

He can make a soup fountain elevator
from his naked erotic desk.

Vira Silenti.
Almond.