Cat in a graveyard, chasing her tail.
Quite the turnstile
feline. A prehensile
Periscope.
If you look sideways
forklift, training the light to
bend.
An ism of prism, an
*
!
up that greasy, up that
thing of desperate keepsake
Time, my
Saves. By all the
purple hepatica
where mist the mark
dog silly
ups that greasy pole; and how
top hat. A double reverse
Burnt
*
Framed, they crie. For all eyes
guide the hand
See? A
*
Grasps. Air full with strange cries
sense of civic disorder. The human face
no ism to act upon as a
Rules the
the nort. Misology
and be xxx’d upon
up that greasy pole, boys, up
tombstones. All the
to gather the windfall
of Mister Professional Brown-Nose.
butt, o,
bites the
*
Up that greasy pole, ladies and
nope
a fear glides over the lit candles, hits
the hanged man, dead, swinging in upon
together. Seven of us
getting old and are wowed
to be.
*
7 chairs . . .
wrung neck, poor
food man.
*
who knows the silly from the
Sally? who knows the
Silly from the best?
Worth a high price. Because
what counts, causes. The
Light fills all place with colors and air
rant fools. I am
Others. We go
in grace, without knowing
what I do. Churches
filled with old music, faith
bores the bleak with a
dog and cat’s eye view. A pop
Who’s.
the big zero . . .
*
Who hopes:
dreams of nothing, I’m
most careful with old mahogany.
*
The?
with all her flagrant leaves
in a lacquered state.
sky, too, so
that and that too
flints;
focus shifting to
the point. Do you know
wooden thinks
as the flower of faith has fade
built right in. We hope . . .
*
in boxes; nor do I dare to gather
Water . . .
in aire’s name, as the crowe hies.
*
poor Starry,
filled with my boys
glad to glimmer
no face fastened–
golden codex, moon of struck gold
bent like a bird;
the people who tooled up, too
*
heart’s larceny
screwed up. To be sure
a scary
*
close of some radionuclide adrift in the
willow-wind . . .
bidding for a box-lunch fate, o,
*
empty the sky is, empty of us
concrete. The noble sense of how
to a
? sunset. The sun
had to race.
For Starry, too, is a
matchbox artificer. Who has an odd
even’s the devil-thread. Who
crows’
wax … This, too, marks the surety
Straight from the sharp, acute in-
verse of cats. Spats of cats and souls to
who knows? Who!
the strange from the narrow? The
*
Empty casting . . . Who?
whole hill, leaves scattered
passage. Shadows rippling down
idea; but there is still the old
beckons with a brightnesse, with no
seek the first dry things of Spring,
crooked thing of thorn, a
*
A cross between cupid. And the devil pours
leans to the flow;
and the watch-faces are:
*
because the devil was small, still a child
of lightnesse; till the breath
of one who is not
weakens the stone. For the moon’s a
tourist here, on a ferry to
dreaming place. Where the azaleas
conspire and wind-up the
*
witch-hunts.
Formalities will occur at the
Only at the Eastern
Corridor and floor to floor with
Moon. A
shrubbery ferrets hillside,
brought about by luck; and yet
*
pauses
Night the artifact
toe to toe with cats, a
wonder the
Y’s cake. Pour
The cat walks, wind in her face . . .
A wicked,
?
*
barn. Give up hoping . . .
over and over, shoes
boring through the solidest. To ex-
*
In the holiest of times, death
there, thinking
A
lucky toss of the hat
A chronic
May wine. A boot, a shoe.
*
wearing thin sure
with holes. The humble press upon the
whole sick
*
nanocurie on the tongue glows;
seconds pass, you
badly off, and where?
Mister Hare in the barley.
flare, fly, fall.
Like the true man’s tryst
dust, buried sky-high in the
Tootle.
To chisel the word from runic-work
did, o,
*
hill in sky snows, white
Illusion: ghost of Mad’s
Wilds the . . .
Cats . . .
Go wild and
keep. Stay away from eld
embedded alpha-emitters,
pipes and picoliters,
don’t breathe: hope
The hot star in the lung’s
not: for hope
hops. Yes,
tint the glade on the stone heap’s baldy.
*
Stairway too. Give up candles and
Starry glows in clothes, too
an oddball river
peppers.
bingo parlors roar for Mars on the tide
flow of rats and
*
Catclatter, Catfool. Catperson . . .
with all her flagrant colors
an outlaw
*
greased lightning and
leave faith at door: under stone
lizard a cat spies. Bite, cat, bite!
For–on the floor–
, all cats know:
the ending is more starry than the door;
Faith is of the earth, like silver grasses
Gentle doubt makes an ism of–
into a prism. Ocularia. It reads
you right, human. The whole iron hill
abduct the art: The end goes on longer than the
Start; that’s why it’s
called "the end"
