(Sorry about this - one more try to get this thing to keep format in e-mail - I've just played about
with the auto-wrap - if it fails again - forget it! - Dave)
Biograffa Littoral
Insomniac, unoiled, tremblant at library stacks, AutoPoet slumped, a split potato sack, at
great-grand automadaddies desk. Its Afrique wood. Its trade wyndes. Loot, baby, the tune on your
lute.
Homilies, hymns, indices, concordances, treatises on opticks and prosody, conjectural geographies,
threats of fall, an instant rebuke from a peruke. Claw quill gripped in his retractable quivered for
its ere mammal. Cheerless he chewed at odd ends of vocabulary, ship stale biscuit. Dentigerous lust,
lost and lustreless.
Sail, 's old, soul. Through the eye's window, that is the wind's hole. And azure loomed, zoomed
infold, wingfold, above rune names on mahogany, stood. A bird it is eyeing him, with the gaze of the
cretaceous, speechless.
Like that little pause, at the tip of a question mark's end.
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
Home Page
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