winter’s dying day–frying trout on the backburner

ahoy, my vasty dilmas! eat some words and watch the footnotes parade by like ants, ya.
that con queso keeps my spleen from venting, patching up the quivering loverbuoys.
ah, forsigh, but who even reads poemcicles anymore? plenty of writers scrawling away at their etchy monsoons.

eat your heart in the marketplace? that’s the way to do it… kick over those countingtraps. whop the words into frenzied (heh) k-?r-skrs.

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