Part 1
I, like a don donned the dawn of my heartbreak and left my icy walled prison I had jailed myself for the past month listening to distorted rubenesque trouts' disdainful bubble popping tales of icy mammals and cavernous creatures both enigmatic and rock-like. A burning for a fiery baptism of its olfactory glands I needed so out the door was I. I seduced a fickle vamp with an accidental gaze right out of the gate? Our pleasurable [pause]Oh I did twiddle the fickle fräulein in the milk-times of the clouds on the translunar satellite, thrumming that woke the crepuscular fireflies till from the lurk of the shade they came; tatted tit-bunned Taureds and half bear-haired, dense sheep-hair chested, boiled head gluttonous, of the condition of panpygoptosis succubi named Tancreds, their walks sniper- snack with ossifrage spinning fingers lithe. They ever come, they ever hide, and ever on the tree of dripping tongue blood I hang. So I ask, can one square a circle, or reason with a typhoon. I cannot, a tapleyist oft am in the world of waking nightmares, a positive [pause] sounds (from conversation) woke the unpopped cherry crepuscular firefly guards who from lurking in the shade came with their walks sniper-snack and their ossifrage spinning fingers lithe. They curse me. The flirt, they call me, and under scrutiny of their baleful glares and overflowing murderous intent, I move on. On the corner I meet a thought experiment playing question mark chess with a one-eared tomtom under the flapping flag of a black angel gauging on the jinns in a bottle of wine from above a hill constructed of post-punk [pause]noctambulator. Jinn tails on my mistletoe pipe, fabled like the name of all things, they are all of no name or all names. I look for mine, sifting with a symbol sickle. Can I half slash mine by mistake? Hysterical by a missed take, I run with a imberbic lunarian wind walker babying a half moon wailing about starry adolescence, woes began on the thirteenth plenilunar [pause] craniums. I, faking contemplation, asked the black angel : "Can one square a circle, or reason with a typhoon." No one answered. "I cannot,"I eventually answered myself morosely, "a tapleyist oft I am in this world of waking nightmares, a positive[pause] A naufargue from an Euroclydon with a drenched portmanteau possessed of a riddling calepin and soaked zalabiya. The mistress I chased through seas frumious crossly in the beginnings was rescued by sycophant blasties and I still chase her, elevated to ladyship. Once alamodic and revered for my prose-poignant love-libels, now mind mixty-maxty. Visions flash with the unbirthday manatees, cannibalistic. Tis all unnatural, as is this shrivelled world of canvas and unriddeable ways. Match lit, chasing essence. Foes visceral, balance brilliant, fragrance vengeance. Sixpence to half with a pence [pause]noctambulator. Jinn tails reside on that flag. They are fabled like the name of all things. They are all of no name or all names. I search for five impossible things, sifting with a symbolic sickle. Can I half- slash that flag by mistake?"[the end] quintessence clairvoyant with the sixth sense, grotesque impasso with a moose haired lasso. Experience iridescent I crave, solstice accuse I claim omnipotence. My over insistence creates a fluid motion so I dare walk without somber potions. New cadence, renaissance of the soul, dalliance with an image pristine. Unspoilt, a lamplight. Match lit, I chase my essence.
Part 2
Yonderly under the laqueary of a monadnock, deep in my bluestone and rooting for a alamodic lunette or a love libel from a ceraunite over a alamodic lunette, bass-breath over mistletoe heart, oceans in the sea of stars, beautiful as a lamprophonic escry, a sicarian twankling a agony pipe in a aceldama, as beautiful as that glebe that never grows. Death and life are two sides of the scythes, the dream garden and the drift reaper. The sea of stars is as beautiful as a dying arsesecomic. So beautiful it was, as beautiful as a dying maid. The grass is darkly beautiful as death. Indeed, it is slightly charred and mayhaps that is not dark enough for the final embrace. Still dying, almost still in the fluttering wind. Still, the grass is darkly beautiful. Beautiful as summer in a meadow, beautiful as a sorceress. The grass hides wondrous things like a glass tree does its bark among the woodland trees and those grown too old for the experimentation of the new age. The glass tree remains beautiful yet veiled. Its beauty is veiled like a violet nestling in overgrown moss. A violet IS nestling in the hair and the glass tree is beautiful from the crown of its trunk to the soles of its root and it is veiled, a djinn. The violet nestling in the moss aspires to be as beautiful as an oriole, as beautiful as the vernal willow that is the glass tree's disguise. The oriole does not even incline its petals towards the violet's way. Its sight is lofty, high like the vernal willow's tallest branch. The violet and the moss is like a dragon and a carp, a Peng and a fish, a willow and the oriole yet the willow seethes upon its loft, yet all is a pretense to escape scorn for the carp, the fish, swims and is admired by all that walk the fields while the dragon, the Peng can but only arouse awed terror but never heartfelt favour. That is for the fish for it is down-to-earth. It is flightless, trapped on earth and so can only swim the in opal lake and by chance, glimpse a tourmaline leviathan which chases it…and eats it.
Part 3
Scabbards prostrate to heaven. The shade has no end. No flags but one shines proud. Scarred steel hands still hold. Brutal spear has long since kissed the marrow of the bone and from that mangled flesh drips the currency of the soul. The grass is a shade brighter, the earth drunk a tad as her crevices are ever assaulted by blood of all shades. Nymph folk and wide grinning centaurs who can no longer talk, beasts of sheen grey and lizards pale with eyes rotund and bleak, manic and clean. Clean the death-bringer's hand was not. It was delicious fear and safflower scented lust that the giant craved to devour and so, in the dessert of slaughter they conversed, The death-bringer with his outstretched hand and the giant in silence. He oozed imagination. The giant knew it, the moment the death-bringer smiled. Hookworms squirm within that death-bringer's teeth. Seesaws merry applause, mer-dukes hail the fraud, hail the outlawed, arthropod thawed demigod nimrod → Foolish person: that's me. Fool-ish persona: that is I. Full-ish personality: that's what I have and will give freely, alright. Awe, right. All write.