for Jennifer Moxley Gris gris on my right forced fake word-force fricasseed, fracased in the grinned flat flare. "Another paragon, Iceland, to free feed from the meta-tombé." "The word tombé," the girth grown on my bereft sensed self spat, "means 'to form.' In yeast bateaus shouts of thousand thousands chose to choose, in fall, in all, for Apollo tomorrow. To enter spent and doubted - out in the Rasta hustle - busted tombs, boys: shivering for the gaunt grits of Helos. Waco weekends crammed them 'in house' because they go slow well - the hurdled hairs of the Hesperides, Ariadne, stumped - beyond Weakening Horizon. O Shasta shakes shattering, where the Sun groins in!" the dipped Dane withered. Another hectare: files of Donne, Di Palma, Toto, haunt. Gorgeous lids altering faltered in the Orca-acked drive guilt, dramatic, druidic - drained: Hate Mystery. Therefore all failure of ours for the bourne tour's stars literally slimmed, wafted in months of sorting "swear" sins, with dump swains beefier than round. Randy-Of-Ligature-Mother: "Shea uttered mot oath-hairs, split Sanft airs - her turdy toned storing bonied stilts gaze out of their swooning." "Putt the untimely primate under its atari, the 'Bee's Cat''s host, lost!" Therefrom they'd rail full, they hot on the circled Ross Combo, not those dimpled codices of the dreaded Snow Miao, though under tough Waist Land's pods and days, withered roast pants of blamed class. The burst bat faces wrathed north of their overt lovers, careered to fly to. . . - Then the chorus cupped cornily (conies!) cornered, kirked, draped in Hecate's dove-tails, trumpeted to waft slight weights here, wandering, woken to attention of the tension of the hemmed End of the Universe.
Pub. Feb. 1999