Bosch, Boswell, and Bataille are three razed nubs for a tripod penny which holds a tiny statue of Oebotas of Dyme.

Eugenia is being picked up tomorrow.
They know about the stains,
and the chewing gym.
A statue head in the desert
pours out its woven
and chewy Eugenia.

So will I sue, or sew,
or is the candor's name
Eugenia as a style, while
the slough operate perchance,
as a thing which intersexes
many drains?

We're different in our bodies,
and hold forth different Parthenons
before the great indictment
of the thing which visits Beowulf
stilled. Eugenia much too lazy
to embolden exploded architecture
as profound (a gap).

Kids need take their internet
into the haunted house
to photograph
the weird finials,
and make their plans for them
as vibrational, illuminated, sensorial, etc.
I'm pulling down menus
in which the Phoenician form
leverages junk with
strange oblong heads (ingkoths)
selling candles to the dusk.

The icky splay of hand
condenses Plato there, and tells nothing.
Thoughtlessness gave birth to thought,
and thought is not so rare
when being consonants
with its own glittering guts
as in some old maxim
tithed by black menus.

Perhaps one planet of suffering
will in time
be seen as a form of balanced equation,
and Fermi will look like Ezra Pound,
a headless Alexander
connecting his suppurating
gurgling neck hole
to another of the same
owned by Diogenes (or rented for cheap)
playing the sun
with a crystal phallace.

The women wail
and Eugenia swoons,
and all now know
that Ixion is Ixiontology.