the yips

[from:   the Loss Lieder]

anger is,  as then title

“don’t lean on my soul”

or little tiny-ish bits broken up      they do call that

                     something, of the humanesque

forgotten label 

all folded up         lowering the sonic boom

            that’s just pretty blanched trouncing

whoa boy   that blam wd. scare cats a-sleep where

repeated repeats frame structure;

crying by the roadside is

electronic decoupling asks or turns hard

stunt well or decently worn tourniquet

he gives you all the rules

doesn’t have a foci grasp agent, see?

all roads involute at rolling slash bells a night

racer turns off onto old faded road trace amphetimenish

tatter it’s likely a sneer all balled up         as if he had new

abreaction to the asiatic mode of reduction planned

rack to titter some and sob that phoned-down outline

wisp suggests personage in a parsonage, old world

energy insecurity ratted out the gasp of disbelief

as in this creep thief;  you were there lighting candles in

a chamber where pressure means running out into

colder air

asking is then falling inside people’s property,

a soul gets tattered & covers consumers,

a kind of glue, rashed by biblio non-reference

shout out stems from 3^rd interventional

nabob runt, rotten as a truce, or a flit into ramped corners

go inflame some sloppy farfetched drawback,

then being gets to escalate slope motions

bars melting in the city engines of a lack sour thrown dent

someone has posted a thing about

how vibrate across flat mail winning the wrong war

presses flat clunk magicoid dross wander:

ya gotta love it!

      then popular cult, sure   in bitter potential for some

sociality:    frontline

    reader  publishings

dealing out

neo-sanctuary tips      all about hiking across inner cities

                      and:

discourse nods

where that matador                 intently

gets ready

                        as you   speech unamericanize Attackville

to, burn a cape