The Mumble Corps

(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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