prattlings of charadrii

its fortunate im a virtuoso at breaking down my mind or else i wouldve lost it

i break my mind into borax and hinnies and move things from here to here with the power of hoof

to die or to die or to die or to die

the coward dies only once while a coward dies a thousand times a day

the brave died long before they existed and the coward who dies only once is a boring coward

the faculty of the imagination  in which anarchy and art are students and the poofessors everything  is a faculty of death  and those who would create greet the morning with itineraries of obliterations

i loved her because more than anyone else she knew best how to kindly and wholly annihilate me

a priest of death and a mogul of disappearance

a morass of more asses distemper dismembers and veps became avocets phalaropes coursers and curlews and if i have to speak my languages directly  in that method of directness that speaks only indirectly  to obscure the structures that speak the language of dominance directly for you  i would like to speak of debt 

det debt or dis debt?

dis is debt and debt is dis

i use trophic cascade in my wishwasher to clean my haberdines

though i prefer catatonic tropicana im always open to overfishing

deaths the new life and i propel through the temple like an oleaginous oracle thats being eaten by its patabase

id like to redeem myself but ive lost my selves and deems

losings a technique the forensic poet uses to gain in the knowledge thats not

im friable and while watching game of kolophonia on the ulexite the other night my mask slips and i cum on my lips like a habitual pun braying on her knees to the lovergod of stone

im lucky im a grandiissimo at losing my mind or else it would have broken

the art of losing isnt hard to master

the art of musing can be hard to luster

ive finished slaughtering cleaning and devouring the sea cucumbers and now i dont have anything to do

not having anything to dos the same as having something or many things to do in that having the not having gives having a doing of many mani haves

different tombstones  different centuries

different tune tomes  different cemeteries

queues cumber death so i line up in loss

its nice of the sun to come out and shine on all the losers

clouds line my day like mascara and who would stack the ducks against me

body is my refuse and amaranth

a very absent kelp in rubble

therefore we will fear that well be removed

and the gadgets be carried into the midst of the sea

the phrase without moor

rāstra without fāta

ive lost the day like lilypops

and wander in florescent neverglades

like ducksicles

and foplings

minds over there

with canticles of cunnilingus

its stover bare

alongside solfeggios of fellatio

find clover lairs

for humps of humming

tits hover where?

my wyrms aneeding forage

we shed minds like orvets and ride our sporty deaths along the day

cum musking luv into the skummet of our pseudosquamic ways