One Ran Day Low
Adieu on tour the paler gaffes
have pantone lathed in figure
sifted lest fireplugs spout tone.
Then’s rift had sod tossed in it.
Halve as such begun by seeping, so.
Wafts I file I collate inside I will.
Will u? ‘If’ uplifts fatal wishes.
I give it 2 months top but lean
with me a moment at the edge,
no figure at end lents the fake limp
if having been named is good. Fine.
Lakes tint at the pain I’ve made.
In this plot leaking faltered loss.
Since error comes tailored lint
is finer easy and then as easy I,
appeased, can make war spout
from any hole a puncture likes.
What spurts a pain knows hurt
is intimate until the hinting’s end is.
Immersed in like it really ends mean.
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Hi, my name is Pavlovian Excessesin Socialwelfare, what’s yours?
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Hi, my name is Whataboutbobviewing Willbe Seatedshortly, what’s yours?
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Hi, my name is Ardor’s Pique, what’s yours?
Tufts uplift sifts thru flattened sculptural Lays bags, ruffled chips become little crushed objets, real crumbs, making, among the questions, into Which air is the sculpted air, among this other air, please consider this? If frequency verifies anything it’s that one thing continues to exist, I’m at a total loss of how to justify for two… suppose N is urgency, the inherent correspondence between need and lack that subsists in speed’s almost gravitational field, but then one gets handed the donut, it happens Tuesdays, and thereby
all sags into singularity anon.
Taste succumbs to what with speedier fealty than friendship?, gather what quarks the courtyard’s mandolin forgets, who is to say the softest thing is not also the sharpest, that which none can touch for sharpness, even as one tries, continually, trying by pushing one’s palm, so open, against it, the supple flesh, the hand split twain, the agent, though, is suppler, I assert, sharply, impossibly softly…. Give me a hand, the pill has to take, I thrust terror at pathos’ garden, it stimulates growth, of a type,
a peak resists belaboring
it merely crumbles away from what barrels down upon it
thereby it retains its name regardless of
Intuit I’ve Lead
thru this frame; the wheat pouts and
you gots to know it’s gone, him up
hefting, and, with the grunting…. He
sweating. Would what’s ballady gift
Samuel Johnson his gloating,
his dun parlors
then’d held riles.
Would’s willing its form into fact.
The Sore Throat is the book
I should have been reading
for this full past week and a half. (I say this because I have had one.)
The Dead Father’s what
I should read in his sleep:
(repeat it) a wishing I had one.
That the beleaguer limits and
that believing’s a limit is plenty, form
cradling its sodden face. Who’s facet let this
thesis wilt. Halls glisten. Whence sound’s hit?
Fanciful the cactus who bends in. When
Barthelme’s white fur smothers my face, his
gurgle composes the
I it absolves.