Flappers of the High Iberian Qualtusk, Morris Graves in Pregnancy's Moonfroth.

in the ruined cabin, we placed a candle as big as a tree, and continued our sampling, the moon's bright foetal gaze illuminated the complicated sphinx of skeins that the cat's cradle in our collective row of dorsal antlers presented, a notation for the sculptural music of a witless sighing...

At Genville, during endless strolls along faux'ved and pointillesst beaches, the blessed ghosts of former recording angels called on us. Always remembering to wear the black iron thimble which was removed from my navel at birth, this antenna, then, became their soft, holy, mouth.

just think of huge blood red lacquered cowries hovering 

over endless twisting bays, cool light and mist in their belly slits

My name is Miroslav Tichy.

My name is Marija Gimbutas.

My name is Morris Graves.

It was said that when he initially arrived, there was no "sword in the stone", but rather,
a crude Pictish totem on which birds had shat for generations, rendering the base into a likeness
of a headless deer covered in delicate fleece.
"I am the Author, but I am trapped in the book."
"Trapped in absolute freedom."

First in Haarlem,

and then later in Sweden,

Rapunzel, writing as 

Rumpelstiltskin, made her

lickerish way

through the conch

and manifold of all creation,

working her wooden bell

into the rut, its red-hopped

flapper

a helicopter of pearl-swined

amulets fobbed

on a forlorn curiosity

itself

a soft

pink

fleshly

pillow

embroidered

with illegible

writing:

BLACK WRITING

At last, the fabled connoisseur entered the fold,
its fleshy nose, where crystal quills
noisily tilled the dark loam atlatl
of the cursive sieve
of accursed Siva, a billowing
and nameless stone,
or spirit, for
when awkward ears press out, awkward eyes
press down.