Wednesday, January 10, 2018

all hell lost low thuds

if i were a peach
on the great and idiot plain
surely my palms
would pitch up
would rotato
such that my hands
would be owls
were-owls fierce
in capes of henbane
and ilky sphurjati
rummaging the flatness
the all-coalescing flateen
until the nothsome
would fuzz
and glance
until this orange owl
in the furry pumpkin
would say its fretful candle
to the lark of breath
opening its gruit-sac
to hail the risibles
with torn stars

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.