the neon dobro's F hole twang & climax from disappointing lyrics of upstreet outlaw mattress while pawing visiting trophies & prop up drifter with the bag on head in bed with next of kin to the naked shade-a tattletale heart & wolf of silver drizzle inevitable threatening a womb with the opening of rusty puddle, bottomless, a rude awakening & gone frozen with dreams of birthday fog/ in a boxspring of sadly without candle sitting & depending on a blemished guide, you do not feel so gross important/ success, her nostrils whimper. the elder fables & slain kings & inhale manners of furious proportion, exhale them against a glassy mud ...to dread misery of watery bandwagons, grotesque & vomiting into the flowers of additional help to future treason & telling horrid stories of yesterday's influence/ may these voices join with agony & the bells & melt their thousand sonnets now ...while the moth ball woman, white, so sweet, shrinks on her radiator, far away & watches in with her telescope/ you will sit sick with coldness & in an unenchanted closet ...being relieved only by your dark jamaican friend-you will draw a mouth on the lightbulb so it can laugh more freely
forget about where you're bound. you're bound for a three octave fantastic hexagram. you'll see it. don't worry. you are Not bound to pick wildwood flowers... like i said, you're bound for a three octave titanic tantagram your little squirrel, Pety, the Wheatstraw