Tuesday, May 22, 2007


I’m through bringing you these little vials.

In your vestment armor I envision a cleansing of the meat board.

Still no hammer can straighten the victory loom.
Saddle your viewfinder with the trembling of weaving.

You ought not prune your Hydrangea with the broadsword of Lo-angrick!

Swing me to the myriad. I have enlargened the hoop straddle
with ingots of Thule.

Gorge wedded to the throng toggle, I, steeple grouched the heathens,
but with flowers, sweet purple Pansies, Goth-weaver.

I’m journeying to the Mall of your choice in order
register thee, my cellular to the battle axe. Such

a pretty compliment to the broken tooth,
also the queenly crown, her smooth crash:

Nordrun the cruise liner wishes to bury you.


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