Biographia Literaria
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 former mammal.
Cheerless he chewed at odd ends of vocabulary. Dentigerous lust, lost and
lustreless.
Sail, sold 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
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