The Half Marathon
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Doubloons of Unsynced Slabs of Boodle
A rictus of cursive faff grubs the splayed-out
mooch in the hinder parts of smote ennuye
wringing the dregs out of the squiggly
Oaves of slime-flux bleed into the air like
swapt night-sweats sump-pumping the
homeobox of orrery boom-ba bone-meal:
my digit is frigid.
Antipudic moments, flutter-tonguing the
naked-muzzled, splat-quenching star-jelly,
ablaut the mammilated bladder-fiddle in the
Headlong belches wrench the tension in the
bippy clacker's stultifying simultaneity of
offish swoons degusting the craquelure's
Scut fus zatch ort flouts the cony flitch rife
with braided burps thumper-tucking the
agapic torple-emiction chumbling the
Unsorted cracks of plunging necklines
outlast the isthmuses of miasmatically
argent squeeks flounching the unstuck dimps
Snippets of veneer, blobjects of dict,
unevenly engorged, puff up artifices of
encapsulated extrapolations overlapping the
Amurcous sordor moldavites the glairous
gladioli bespattering the septically imbecilic
slutch-coctions of the least deft ooid cooties'
Worped hyena butter wheedles the
flagitiously frowsty skanq jumentously
puddling the collapsed soufflé of my boubou
Olid eleisoning sook me off while fribbling
away the drat tard drut exposing the
scansion rind lilting flitchy strips of limpy
Cowless twunts vacuole the nidorous goiters
egesting the cadaverine ludology gulching
the curdling screwpile of piecemeal head-
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
My Beth Poem to Whirled
The history of day is a poem itself. It tells the house to enfold and embrace. The topic sits with power
merge with function clock. To be a person in the light, landing in the sense of land, includes the hand that says it
hands. This is the thing, if love could attain, all along linking piecemeal. It can, and has all the time.
All the time, that brusque moment. To embrace the house as love fills it, that's why we have hands. A time intended,
and tended, with a well, out back: these are running statements, you and me. With arbours and bee hives and
visual trees: an orchard for the time, and the bees: exactly all the bees in their nature.
A deer is an envy.
A pond is a planet.
People hold hands, truly. A hand is a vast continent, and a love is still waters. The day is the history of
, or fall, or mostly sunny (until night). Night is the prime nature of when night as a feature, in terms of
light as the caldron of when light could be by, fulfills a dark feature. When night is a feature true to love, you
are a word in love. So we inhale land, clouds, other clouds, and the place where we could place, ourselves.
The day is inside and out of that. Language is the poetry in the language of that. That is what we want.