Monday, March 15, 2010

twiddle and riddle



None know this word. Or the word knows its pace its rhythm riding boundless to the infinite thought of its pressure. And the cambering ride of sudden caught over the stave of  night. And fits this rudder crossing the bizzare ladder of its crumbling. An old god dies easily its the new ones have a hardy time being borne, being born. O you stupid ones.



Mona ferries the river.                Charon the riverbanger cuts her sheep and shop up tight that way making hamburgers for the night.                                   its crystal hide has nothing to conceal. except the better of thought and felt.


                                                 Cunninng to the gods of bored India and its regnant women
 an airbrushed remnant of            desire, which is not never in 'exile.'  A stupid concent if there ever was one.