(from: the Loss Lieder)
jagged lack
of noise form
drifting, a ramshackle
nub
leafing
into, then pause
maybe drift
across August nite, spells out
something
where guys died constructing that tunnel
so maybe we
forgot that (forty arcane
winks to slip off racked injection
grenades as a wordless found
crash handle or
bluster in weaves from pasts
at gritty street, clatters
like a washed-out green:
moves fake imprison
hemmed in by dragon nestling maybe
if
the rat’s cradle strings along a
chronoform
sleeked out from chloroform
call me right back i’ve got a
way
w words it’s the back way
& it’s a thru way
a gangly
trifling windfallen ... got
nice
polished needs for sale? compost rigging! is in
your
future! the best career choice for
slapping
involution
right into the middle of earning power!
or as you
have it, urning powder ..
it means
lope right at paw thru art
thru
articles, thru openhanded snigger
or
level-headed was the way i imagined it, all-time low
flighting
mute stand-offish as ill-omened,
ramp up some
mealy-mouthed simmer chords
& rock
on to k-dance:
it’s pretty
grate, whirl over skimpy cognitize mulishness,
almost right
there kooky heyday, reflecting
darkened
screen
assigning flextime to open up
confessions for my
talk show:
never any time tho for pre-cocktail
spine-chilling;
just put out the gun fire when you go to
bed
to dream about touring in that Turing
machine—
it’s an aspect
ratio, it’s a grid in the vision,
it’s what you
always get with a take-charge kind of guy;
it’s par for
the curse
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