Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Oona to your Mona

Oona to your Mona, Jill to your Fanny. Felix to your Gilles. The professor sat on a hill smoking his cigarello. What chimes built on the hay of socks was his, presenting multitudes dinner , dun by her cake and sawn by the sun. What rip cord of delight . Repeat after her. Quelle sunder to replace the word French language. Letting it flip. Come a dance
in chaunce
to the sun
its april cocoon
make the fair weathers halt and stop and hop.

Mona got in a huff and a puff blew yer cloud house . Tangled by weir.

Friday, March 02, 2007


Aieee the worse the faker the better the ornament, eh? you see it tweak the old age of bums mendicant wanderers who cuff the edge of travel with protexted selves . something is not this. Say Mona. Her dress on her skirt.

we're tire of the war Yearny, we're tire
of the fly lie in ointment

Aieeeeeee Mona, come to the ...

Wait, huffed by wind, shes not daunted by false travellers.