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The Gelede Buoyant ... for BobBob wasa generous thread sheared shortsprinting up the codex stairsof Daedalusor falling from a ladder.the bookstore is confidentof habitual shelvesand moreswirls of bone-fire tinder than you can shake a stick atbehind the low desktomes of eroticainstructionsof how to thumb the laby-rinyand tickle free the threads of timeon moonrisethe deadthey play a brisk jig in the near-duskbasement.hats ajarears to Lysistrataand accordionsnot Aeschylusand his Afghan fact-findersthe Geledehonor the mothersnot theValkyrie chopperscutting thegaggle of pagesfor the shredderwho can see the Moriaabout the goblin market?It's life -eggshell fragilethin as rabbit whiskershe was the Finneganthe weird sisters stalkedas we discussed Joycethat nighthe handled thesheaves of constipated knowledgeexpertlywaxingsolitarymason hands cradling papersor a bottle of Saisondown into the snowat Christmas to keep it cold
Ooze RecordingsLogo's orbit and twinkle dance in the stockyardtickertap drizzelswhile other animals founderin the ooze records of forests better left entombedwe're just territorial apeshunkering ina wilderness of consented liesdigital campfires for headstuned and illuminedonly by phosphor enginesand the severed braidsof theDead and almost deadThe vaults are full of this vampire dungwe only come up to eatwhile naturebattered down and reekingpusses the ass ferment of enfolded biospheresfor usso that angel's can alight on pinseureka!in our shaven doctor meditations
Akashic IcePeer down through a mirrored lake or a deepening pool,Find consciousness there, feeding the fungi on the rime frost -Fat and butter to an ancient cow.Once she licked and nourishedbut now she chews and grinds the ovumice and firewhirlingheart-of-the-worldIt must berenderedthis gristsugar and vinegarOnioning the icelikea mummies bandagearound a hollow bone.
SasoonParoleda crowoverlooksthe trampled harrowsa wound in the headhas got him overthe flaming wallat last...(he was a Sigfried after all)in the hospitalhe thoughtabout his friendwho had courted wiselyamongst the maidens of the slainand picked at the corpsesexpertlyin satirewho's beendead a weekbefore theArmisticesettlesa clutch of papers,sheet musicremains to be gatheredand publisheddulce! dulce! mocks his songbird pity-torn scraps of a lifewasted in trenches.Is it a lovebird's warble to hear?or just a crow'swarnings for the next war.
Geilta on the MarneI can just hear a twitter of loveliness yet,a vapid perfume in the salon.Maybe just a haze above the territories and armed borders.For in August the maps are spread outand soon a clatter will draw downthe bird song's warningsinto the bucketof organs.Ping ping tweetping ping tweetping ping tweetWe saw it coming, thesePoems of WarTrumpets of dead flowers,Fermenting the lambics of slaughter.I wonder if Sassoon and Owen flew off like cranes -through a bardo of murmurs.Or festooned with crow feathersgathered to eat watercress along the Marne.But perch?Will they perch and sing?I don't know if the drawing-rooms will ever be cracked openenoughto hear their