found scribble #15

the flipping of the calendar pages has brought a certain sense… of…

uncovery:

**************

is this still going to write properly?
this staggering pen that leaks all
over the rotter pages oh ho.
that’s something which needs no
bewildering cause in order
to wreak its horribble tendencies upon the
squawling natters.
so the thing goes on and on.
just so like a manfred monkey.
or in other words, all the ink
just runnels out the ends and
claws back eyeholes that lurch
in the darkening firmament.
on the classy mountebank’s camel,
oh yer lumpen fools, wielding a
knobbed sausage and roistering
the marzipan hordes with all
the gallivanting words that sink
the ship or claw it.

there’s naught to—wink about, is
there? or in any fashion that
someone might recall?

when the sailing moon droops down and falls
into the sea, well, what splash then? unhappy
berbers with their sheeping shears. and, when
all’s said and done, what alone is there still
to do? monkey around the czech(?) garage
or fall into the deep dark cool that
fills the cracks and corners of the earth,
that lumpen which lights the furnace and
pats away the gloom.
sear away, gentle dark, and trouble us
no more or all the bounceling babies will
arch out or cry the seeking self to know
any time the crisis is forefronted by the
padlocked sandwich board, or any old
time that creeps along the stanching
path well there’s not much going for
it there. in spite of heat and cold
remorse that shatter outward from the
doorways, there’s or no.

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