a logic of running

lord haunting greensleeves

some of this is unconscious but

the aristocracy of natural form

involves us all  / every

stone or dark sea shepherd's 

beetle grass the dumb

blank eyes of ivory camera toads

and

lady piano quarry the wards

of incan ireland whose

chaosophy knew a sailor

whose grand helmet of black smokers

sewed an onion of any shape

swaps they aren't much

concerned w/ tribal conversations

among the innocent gold

which bleat there in the myths

fog a tern [excitement] 

among the dolphins

joy of the smelling dew

their internal structures were

loosening to the stitched up

horses coming over the bridge

tatooed with barnacles

of the various light-bled 

sponges of ignorances

this sacred goalie

to the court of bliss

its jersey and its tooth emblem

of the mind today

and for all its yesterdays

the plans of moles

toward bacterial 

cigarette antennae

weep tea

in the limousine wasp

your software counters skewed

to critical transitions

the knees of noon sang

vociferously of these saviors

the loricifera

we haven't a clue who i am

whispered the acritarchs

inside the bustles

of their green algae

or odes to the lacy bosom

of all that is known

of bosques in making sense there

to paralysis there

is no trivia when you are here

with the memory of angels

who store their laughter

among the micro-animals

there is no greater giant

than the small empty spaces

where dank hammers

hairy with glass

cement their problems

to the job

the plumb century

doubles its kabob helixed

skin witness towns

in maned anthems

of skinny rivers

glee cherie

is wood's sentimental

and confessing flies

each a feathered compass

weighted with tones

poor homely hoards

of machine-smashing machines

the dutch anemometer whips

our wind is blood

between the fences

built up in silence

by the gaspardly nummulites

whose creased hats later

would be naturalists

bent on the urban slang

of igneous birds

their feathered minotaur prawns

of daytime consciousness

have manners for all occasions

in rain we have our clothes

naked in the tuscan cypresses

and slipping out from 

between the millstones

little queens or emperors

thronging to the hush

still in the bud

like foreskin clipperships

afro-celtic in the bottle

crying out

do not look at me

bobbling and fumbling

among the hundred thousand

arms of lady janus-ghesus 

the anziotic hydra

its black beak a kissing stone

palling lyrically

to tropical palaeolatitudes

this aristocracy knows

by the sudden radiation 

of multicellular bioforms

uncertain unanswered

questions remain 

as muddy deposits on valley floors

a bounteous indigence

of indigenous pluromal blur

first and last peoples

of rock 

sky

and contrast

to hover

the given reason