In The Roaring Shack Comments

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...
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