when there time
slips as
quaint to the
foolin’ round magpie
a thrust of strings
blackguard for a
white palace
gristle T. cross
is hey wait a minute
the mines in the
harbor are
filled w cliply
thought
ransack, or
mnemonic or
slash said mmmmmaybe,
the comma
was thinking about
it
lank
slingification! maybe
floating, wrack as
insistence
able bloodied C moan
grits
to knack
filter, you manage to
crawl around on all
fears,
rampant at a jive
wire, wing,
sing, ping! vox goes squiggle
there as, a zombie natter-cling
plow straight into
the field of
broken stone,
eventide’s neap
at was thinking about it
lank wasteification
gears down to
a thrust of strings,
a blare
of brass out of the
bronze age
as a process,
thinking, thinking
re-slippery sloping
at the one
on the 7
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