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furthermore, there’s a dungbeetle crawling out the nose of that large grecian urn

accordingly, bondage that snaps a turtle and breaks the beak off. that poppet. yo ho, the dead guy wails. it’s all over.

i once saw a waiter sweeping up some broken glass and whose got all the chips now? now? well, that’s all that he’s said about anything at all. where’s the future going anyhow? ‘s got some gangbusters waiting in the wings, ready to tear down the wall between the now and the next-now?

indefinitely sad. or maybe some other thing. i’m all parched and and and… well, enjoy the afternoon you saucy bunkins!

rememberizing the meat

where am i now? with the bloodcicle stained withal, eh? no, nothing so gory, or shall we say, un propos. but to be sure, there’s been a real dearth of original thinking around these parts of late. hard to take the last gasp lying down (or maybe that’s the only way to take it…)

enter the fist, or some ninja-flavoured monstrosity like that. whirring stars and pointed clown noses. uncertainty, like a cavalcade of munchkins running down the stairs, is just tumbling every which way. who knows where the corascading novitios are headed? damn, it would be nice to be fucking awesome at something or other: basket-weaving, or bookbinding or beekeeping or just any old thing.

nopmo designer

languidly, some say, the beastie
(crawled from neath the gutter)
eats his mealworms, yum!
uncle federico, that scoundrel,
has some balloons to show us,
though, what for, we can’t say.
piping craven sounds throughout,
that harpsichord eats words–
no one can get an ear out.
triangulate the buried treasure.
there’s heaps of corpuscles in there.

but some say the words of gore
and pet the ould beastie–yowch!
spiny hair that brades the hands
is it some dainty porpentine?
or rather a delicado rhinopero?

seems the bastions been seething.
mandatory lashes for the fourth
prevaricator.

barrelling along like gangbusters in the woodshed–something NARSTY in thar

pouring out the sweepitudes, ya. can’t break open the head with a munch, but all’s capital scarpy. will the nat ever….? jiggling continues to frebile the oaksters

or suppose the moop doesn’t ache? flaut that sausage, gnawer! that’s a ticket to indgestibles, the cavalcade of moonstruck bohemiants, deviuncles. monocular pursuits grab my cold shoulder.

or alternately: eating ONE godcicle

i’m sure, if the paternoster fails, no one casts about for g’nesha or sredni vashtar or unka legba…