Wednesday, April 24, 2019

wolf plover grenade

in one of the smallest gardens of granada in a garden about the size of a single uno by uno cubit tile the diffuse image of the cimitero degli inglesi has been reproduced with all of its human memorials removed and instead focuses on the abstract topology of the remaining landscape but the very small postage stamp sized garden may have a wolf for a long time each of us in the cabinet has adored and performed our daily duties wearing only the finest sheepskin robes and the relatively huge yet miniature cedars which accentuate each crown of ruins we wear might appear as ears or horns for we are cuckolds and are not cuckolds in venice we did not wear crowns of miniature gardens when we joined the anti-government government but crowns of miniature parks parks have a curious side to the their nature they do not like cemeteries and since the parks have taken over many of the most beautiful cemeteries have had their memorials removed by the agents of the wolf plover grenade in grenada the city was surrounded by green ice for a good part of the last decade and so the parks were made forlorn now the now is the loan park wolf tile its green ice cemetery crown are the duties of the leading horn and apple a green park let's remove the memorial to this bad apple this postage stamp sized hair brain crown when the rein of cuckolds kisses butterflies in the cool grim air of all the sad others of time when the thin sad time of the others enters the finger window of the theater where the crochet goofs the garden to its park light then no bomb is goal no bomb is goal no faces afflicted by names no parks curious about their aftertaste and no foreign soil all the earth is a wholly and human ruined soil join together and be a horny mistaken pestilence in a cubit by cubit organ memorial tokay glean from its weird best what the plover paints when it lapwings the charade the dry nine-columned near and from this kissing cuckold crown tokay one day there may drift gingerly a devil's mist a demon fog all made of gardens what would it take to maintain a grotto of green ice grenades whose hot garden heart can melt no ice let the devil's day be a park in no joinery to a fully transparent engine and take its key for no reason therein lies the story whose visible structure avids no connecting trace

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