where the blots on this escutcheon bear a printmaker's autoclaved bootlaces...
clangorous and bottle-fed underlingerers float in the cherry swamp..bouyed and procrustean....with their scissor-legs and muted banjos calling for a broadsword and a half-liter..
.I would run but the milk thistle has stolen the pathogens...weary of cardamom, I blink before the feral froth....
encumbered by no narwhal's pegboard, he glides past and is enveloped by semiotics...
I always suspected the ramp was at an uncomfortably quizzical slant....that it has been confirmed is of little consequence.... and no beekeeper's handshake
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Altwarwise by owlight, I bow before the flood of you words, words, words. - Will