Enjoying New Socks.

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Each light call to make a pawl, the beyond by phase
a mask espying days, but unworn, a daze, the hoof
for a face now toughening in a light of infinite
locusts. Focus on the searing veering labor of its
voiced veins, the poor torn-up hordes of hopeful
coils, the ratchet whose dim, maturer wills, give
onto vistas in the hills. These animate instruments
cannot prove us. With alloy furors, the adorations
prevail, cangues so sleeping among the acts of light,
acts no one really knows. A goddess opens a dress
which is also a goddes and a dress, or two twin
goddesses dance inside an es shaped dress whose beard
is like a sock full of trilobite desks skittering
on mad crashed cymbals. Light appears unworn, but
it is shaved down to the hull and one can see
the fishes that make up the dresses for desks
in their light alveoli pledging complexions
of misprisioms. Light may change itself at
the edges and segue into pregnant ledges,
chubboons lodge before the entrance to
grand hedges, eyeballs rolling in things
not meant to be cathedrals of owning:

Anger augurs a hoodoo of rugae,
and when danger eats the manger
whose fangless master is a
head banger, regal nabis
must swiftly corn the
carnation's monocle.

Any barnacle is likely
to take root on any patch
of skin, music's kin.
There is a lady named,
aptly enough, Rosed
Charlatongue
Schadenfreunde
who says:

"I see white meat-vehicles
standing in an architectural
helix."

helicht
shelicht

Knobby summa gratis
sits arguing, quarled
in a knotty bung.