Tuesday, March 21, 2017

gobble the gook

pjower shove to the corner, 
Baudelaire's asshole pershona, 
the glazier who deserves the flower pot.  

none o' this means shambalic vacuums, 
but the movement of the fingers 
has to keep up their paratense, 
their prehensile figurines' 
abrupt adumbrations 
of synapsis and Apollo.
I just say low, so know 
one knows, 

How's trikcs? 

Tricks are like the subsistence, 
but the real teller is out of control - 
I've just let go, the tricks are a little play 
in the flow, but not the main show. 
the rhyme gets lost 
grime it up lime
in the lime tree, 
hidden for all eternity 
from the likes of 'em.  

honest to pete seeger, 
not one but two flowers in the attic, 
elizabeth cotton cries one 
and then the way the that mother 
could shine shine shine. 
shimmer as a property of shine, 
sorcery in the pines.  

it's the way language weilds you 
winds it's way into the saying like a bega brain, 
still undone by a woman's pain, 
(a man's is just so sinconquential in comparison. 
goawd how loathe, how blase, how gauche,) 
how I miss my life in the arts. 
How I've suddenly lost the fits and starts 
of late night gabberblasting follw. 
Something catching the words, 
ba bucket made of numbers, 
the two are one, names and numbers, 
numbers and words, letters and numbers, 
eighty spelled AT, word games, math desire 
proliferates bunyons, icegate, applebees fortune, 
applet, follicker, awesipaine, vernactitude,  owel, 
varnitud oppsinate. 

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