ferget the thews fit to print

felling those slats, whilst dreaming about ghosts and cats that gnawed on my knuckles, only to turn into her fingers grasping, speaking of ghosts and well, who wants to see those in the dead of dark? pondered opening the eyeholes to let the wandering greyhoke in, but then decided against. opened the eyehokes anyway, partially, and squinty. for a brief, felt that porous suggestion floor the pathways, spook of a man, then only the tracky glimmer of the stereo lights. then to sleep again.

all in all, there’s some sandwichy happenings. and yours t. can feel that greyrope tugging back and forth. and it’s not only a two-way anymore, like and but who or what’s gonna get lurped into the soup? the soup being briney and a bit hackneyed these days, full of flotsam (or jetsam, is it?). beware the squeaker.

even though the nightime scurls betrayed a deeper secret, all we can be recollectin’ is that cat nibble on my knuckle. it turned out even the heftiest, neerdowells, emblazoned caricadoes. ‘streuth! figgered the ol whing might be crouching in the back, liveries and sausage guns at the ready.

catch it all, damnital–the newest pokey solvent throatballcleaner on the marketye–fresh from the slime o’ darkest peru. there’s a hoboken in it fer ye, if ye can stomach that thin grue. (beware the thin grue, he’s twice as hungry as the fatted grue.)

not to speak it, but this one’s nowt sayin’ his dream-farthings
are any nearsight cleaner than those seven fat cows/seven thin
cows/eaten seven fat cows dreaming ould. speak it, but don’t say it, catch me? spoke, spake, spak. drink, drank, drunk. it’s all the same to us.

but at least there’s a big fish on the horizonal.

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