rose there no accounting the lutes bore him through the cleaving mountain shadow and must he die is he virus to our children is he dirty sound to our children is he fly lip to our sun a gag for the bearers I admolished the lordship his attendant motes fashioning a sun-dial he whispers to the edge an advertised giant of  lost steerage all his facets laid open his head a room filled with whistle thorns appalled bodies they don’t have the resin or eyes for that guitars inside their bellies put four trenchants inside their bellies their fuck motors are not transoms inside their immanences a lot of happy particles I formulate the lock I dilate upon the claret stone a gull-catcher in the gallows our mutuality a paralytic aglet I mean the winds have just bent right down and baffled me every day exchanged puerile affect for gargantuan furniture a tiny yard for the gourd of flight sometimes when my mule wheen I stick a toothpick in its mouth and place a bonnet on its tuft parse its tail with a flea comb grab a chicken and stand in the background of some white people having a crisis lord that seems to calm him.