a few bits of these surely won't make sense without the whole sequence, which
maybe I'll put a link up to one day.
look, fresh-minted poems:
so then too much of the blink is barcoded.
the moth and helicopter love to chop.
tv turns itself off. nope, Yhwh will
still not issue recall on his tree. spill
arabesques on our hands, so we can drop
off thicker impressions. rotors cut fog
into dolls, glued to their lids as caution?
call them scareflies, scaremoths. then the autumn
peat crawled along your slain arthritic logs.
mines in my arms can’t tell if they’re exploded.
gaia, the coyote, restructures this
forest for hansel. an eye lets out piss.
hands ruined whilst locking together some
daisy chains, ruptured in their horns. a form
of hansel lets drop wedding cakes, great wyrms,
rocs and griffins fall hungrily upon them,
scarerocs etc ripple through woodtips.
in the grave eyes grow in our shadow’s heads.
iris closes like well-known door, hollows
out a warpath. our rabbet cat swallows
far far more than enough knotted white threads.
moths fall and gyp us of her pea-hard nips.
dimple dips into the about-face, draws
up a moth’s thimble-full of well-nectar.
tick placed in the appropriate vector.
hieroglyphics synchronize with eye flaws.
you vanish into the chesire cat’s maw.
those who can recall fire-stone whilst planned,
they chance the glory-hole hinging her gait.
it gleams like the grail in the tiles, a fate,
DNA curves round to its ampersand,
snake threads a staircase, cut with a scroll saw.
the first direction that is not at God,
but toward the centre of a woman.
tearfully it goes on. cobwebs grow in
the smithy where my fingerprints are shod.
your heart monitor quakes full of fruit pips.
of your quaking rabbet you smelt your kin.
foetuses strung on slender cilia
will sing to it in glossolalia,
sperm will improvise a spinal section,
with your heart all is well, the bucket rips.
coral improves on a doyley. the bra
improves upon coral. the soft moths that
flutter me so are flexi-winged and flat
yet fatly they absorb my milk. they are
silk. there is traffic here, and whether I
am passed through purely, policed by fogdolls
in the shrieking upward wilderness, why,
I cannot tell, the gleaming crowds on my
gates, or else the sour grapes dangling loll
from me, I must breastfeed titclamps and sigh,
or if given half a chance, bunches dance
on my points that slide like eye flaws, grapes gummed
like cairns wave in the air, then, then, tampon
from mouth, oh you tree passing from my hands
slicing life-lines to your bark rivulets,
you mirror in my shade, you sharp pips which
dribble in bloodying pores, pea-nipples,
beer dashing up vagina, spit sour pills
into klingon fur crystal cracks this ditch
breath hands cocks children objects tid bits
milk snot laughter gods poops centrifugal
rage collects you now bad interlopers,
in the circular wind into form you’ll grope,
into frothy realms, modular, frugal,
whirl like frogspawn planets, about your mean,
heaven&hell glory-hole, pitiless love, sol queen.
trickster goddess sends in her avatar.
whirling dervish w/ electric guitar.
then the juice in my inner ear is off.
cough of scaremoth. 216,
line 12: gutteral ] guttural. to see
if the hot margarinefly screws the moth,
to look in eve’s new-minted direction,
tidy ’way your scaremoth but do recall
old paper straws. lissom guitar Tabs come
downloading near findible lass. sneeze from
scaremoth feels like pimple in your heart’s jaw.
they hang like coats before your erection.
thy harmonious interpenetrating
mix-up, frog in thy throat which flesh which li3te
is. phat for a fact. ribbed and that. picked a
fruit. the darkling rose hall. the frogs all weighting.
sysiphus places it, it has become
her clitoris. when I’m in Wraparound
contact lenses then my friends treat me fairly.
we’re cocooned in the screen. the flat tomb barely
reveals our coal statues. the power’s down.
it is like a womb in a MOO. the flung
traces look dumbly up. within the suit
I can wrestle bears, it’s best that your lips
graze my fingertips like this. the disc flips
over, 1.44 more below. cute,
and so sweet, perhaps a back-bruising pea.
resume. razors rearrange you. waters
court and coo you. acids slice fat to het.
drugs’re horns of light, guns’re easy to get.
ropes can be looped again. gas flares, daughter
of sol, the fierce. keep trying. try for me.
the ash dust in the thorn thicket. and this:
the feh mirror to the yogh hand-hold. so:
those old things. oh. nick brace lol! your hands go
hand-gliding. comforter. got cold. stale fist.
those old things, those old hands, oh those don’t work
anymore - those’re ruined! - should be chucked.
floaters open moats around all stars in
orion, they will fit. some mark, like thin
prisons stamped on neck-backs when you’re lucky,
jury’d’ve loved me but the judge’s a jerk.
check the wound every hour and apply
a clean nicotine patch. rub Bungella
in that poor forehead. set up umbrellas
where the pus comes down on the cheeks, called ‘crying.’
nipped in the taste bud. try for me. keep trying.