as if tarantism was: (mere) disjunction, and the fruit burst
of syntactic wonder didn't leave its pips all down your shirt
and context became as the hypozoan, for the lack of life meant
deep systemic thirst for the "authentic" - author! but author was
seething undercurrents of propriative events: I saw & seen
everything the poetasters had upfront on their personal websites -
those rubbery legs that had the audience hoodwinked, and took _your_
stately attic tread transformed to soft shoe shuffle sparkle by
chance and sailed outward to the islands, the fringe bubbling
up through flocks of algal moonshine - only the real stuff, mind,
with carcinogens, the atoll almost bursting, the survey of mellow
learning echoed from a fenland cloister, plip! plop! each fallen
fruitful outrage lying stunned with ripe words
like bees
beneath the world-tree, that place we found to-
gAther
by the
river
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