whethers won

There are branches that lick up, hollow, full of people. Cavalry conclude. Hot Napoleon pate' hat force chaise langue soda symmetry. The branches are furred in cochlea like snails but springy, but nothing like microwaves stays in the mental surface. Words lay flat their hears back lynxing lava seas, dull conchs powder the air with woolen toroids, their noels and o pans tap dancing tah near to our sputtle tubs, a room with pale green walls, a large room, with eight royal blue velvet couches, six large royal blue velvet chairs, and lumps of molten gold sitting there cold, and something like bee-head to the pillow lavender, great sliding plates of neon text stack up under the princess bed like a ladder. I do not kill cold gold, for the will of primate spiders stabbing hollow bird feathers, their ink eye pupil stands salute to bite the hand that feeds, suck to feed the hand that bites the seed, to hand over the biting lip to the feeding felt, there are sex with octopus postcards at the mining hut, but the light comes squirting from a tube, the most complex thing could quivery toys all betting on not finding a cabinetry labyrinth, this delco card ad said, no this elf. give it a minute. these munchin aquariums adapt to being strung like an abstract guitar with licorice.

Candelabra, chandelier, and balcony or veranda, these things have been the source of endless pleasures for me, and as a furred amoeba hiding in their whiskers, my telescopic genetics have caressed the endless velvet trembles of vista, vista tuppenced to pawn and faun, and the pan-pipes worn like a breach-cloth's toll-booth, a silver hand perfectly articulated to tour the knight's skyne, periplum roast, and agon decouple, the deer is shrouded by the branching fingers of the lapwingdovestonefool's egglish anglish pangloss: The story goes that Jean Montgolfier was taken prisoner by the Chess Turks during the Crusades and was compelled to work in a paper mill in Damascus. There he learned how to produce paper, and he brought the knowledge back to Europe when he regained his freedom from the Schachtürken Török to become

FAUX CHANSON.

The star on the foremead shall lead us, as a moon to broken glasses, that the sole ghoul of architecxtourrre shall be to produce our very large candelabras of balconies, so that our flaming bugbear eyes may drink the waxy cries of stars in their long woolen longshouts, for the chess turks flow in these cavalric galvagnometronx, ebbullient witch-bull jupiter street, our salt grain medical chip injected beneath your skin loomed heart murmur: chest irks.

A Chess Turk in every veranda, a black iron heart stuffed with coal figurines

to keep the tulips warm through the long low nitrogen infusing

irruption of footsteps upon the bell-heaped heath.

Useless or useful, the panormaic vasti needs its knights and roundtables and clutter, for if you hadn't walked round the rondelay loomfishfashionarrenludmilavanenwhethers you might never have stumbled on its blinding white foot-tooth:
rows of enamel doors are beqeuathing lavender parrot helmets, like amaranth before your claws,
set its stable gumb down and goal the crunch a gaol roughed up by linking too much,
no dunce no candle, no smile no clown but flowering up the stack.
These balconies are closed and full of book bales, set your candle there,
and let them burn.
Fire clowns sleep under bales of black velvet knights,
and all of it a turban
for a Chess Turk's
synthagem.

Bells of air be warned, now oui crutt to the cru-ick-shanq
where the arc-long veil its slow history word unveil,
a hundred million thousand chatters bale up to a single
heavy monkey-toad lifting floater, the aisle of wile,
its concentric enamel, a hundred miles tall, is lavender,
and row after row of corridor hide the surface of the supple and lucid vision:
an egg-tooth-foot-eye,
a thing like a booger
crossed with a buddha
a thigh of bread
raised like a flag
by a toy

I'll rob you blind little pony. I've never had corn!
Now let's see, this bladder needs a propellor too..

I've come across the desert
to see the knight of corn.
I am Sipsyfuss, and if you roll the rock long enough,
you wear its down,
sheep-corn-frown:
I'm late!

Tell me Colonel
of your adventour
in the vale of cobb

pale opals are corn
on the endless phallic timeline
our nipple cross to bears
who see no line
but honey spelled
backwards,
y'know?

I've just now had an amazing thought Jimmy, but keep playing the piano.
We'll smuggle our tobacco into the yellow lands by making compressed harmonicas out of it,
just like they make those tablets of tea.
Do you think you could play a smoky tobacco harmonica Jimmy?

I know I dropped that turd around here somewhere!
What, another stack of coins!
What rubbish!

Is it language that defiles the meat, or meat that defiles the language?
But what of meat language? of Protein flapping castanets
their butter cabinets churning tender foldings.
Every poem must fold its own close
to meet the hen.

Darling could you move your shoe a little to the left, I've got a distinct gift, this chest irk is about to porter a bad kissengen.
Lately I've trailed off in red coats, the british
might've looked different
scalped
scalped
scalped
and with dracula
tea.

And the owl held up its claw,
its chest irk naked beyond,
our beyond seems such supple innocence
to medieval omen.

the harquebusier's oven
is an owl
like Albuquerque's
no mixing zones.
you need a location?
final balcony works for me.

I pronounce you
DESIGNATED DRIVER!
now come outside and take your keys...
fifi.

The saddest joke of awl
can only be taken two ways
and neither of them
is that way.

Once an owl
took my scalp
for a knight's tour
a panther-long-touring-nose-hoop-monument
and when it returned it found
a shrunken head
for which it was fitting only
as a blanket

If the building itself
is a gorgonic head
then balcony-long-tongue
your apotropaic-eye-garage-mating-lantern
blindness scalp wiggingnesses.
Perhaps you would like to be
the designating
deriver.

hair face.

LUPERCAL!
LUPERCAL!
The Hindelians are coming..
Did you see the last journal of holography studies man?
yeah! like totally far out~

This is the way
the mainstream world
wants your poem to work, but you go on,
fire up that goddamned lawnmowerchainsaw
and hack up howdy doody for me
when you get there..

Another Pope in a go-kart..
(sheesh).