Fragmenting Among The Tallish Shills, A Lamp Might Quill A Birethorme.

pen wights wall
to the weigh-towne of
baal, where its contour
looks-a-lump, black
glossy blob or ebony
bulbulin flomb,

oh metaphysics!

you obsidian lens
carved by eon wide red sides,
doll whose body name says call
for the armless legless
hong

the thing with a handle we grab
as we gallop up the frozen fountain's
pall

oh see our stink
in the smooth space beneath her giant chin
the smooth white den of her neck it opens
onto the slop where the blue emeralds
of their changed bones
once gushed out
of a chancery

if we both had absolutely smoothed faces
our brass skids would not
take the supple distance to the surface
of a phonograph

its skin was not from here
they offered themselves like ledgers
to droll escarpments
lounging through ages

posh thin wishes
enter its cages
to see the sandy sages

mussels have transformed themselves
and from their shells thrum
weird guitars
like bells
or pages

baal
has labia awl
and the laws of its terrible saw
are quite unknown
but one thin hone gives a sage his
hinges for the awe

what toured us
what supped at our return
cloud feel a genimal

do loud
sure hall