saurian baubles

he sits by a pillar at sumulong station his thin dongle making a trail through the valley of his legs and he fears no nunus and boredoms become so part of him he doesnt see it anymore and spirochaetes flagellate through that holy city and he awaits a fellow floater to break through a dreamgate of time and share a meal of love

she comes through silent scream of bones stalwart generational abuse bleeding and butchering the news across petticoats and petty troats and besiding him says going to setapak

inthrarak

the worlds a metro now she says even bears have their own platform and can hop on at discounted rates on occasion of their marginality and divinity and go to mosquito in no time at all its fantastic dont you think

when i was in the war in khortytsia eating blackstriped pipefish and chiffchaffs and blotched sauromates tufted pochards daubentons myotises pipistrelles cervus nippons otters exploding in the air like festive fireworks for a race so indulgent who could not concede any forbearance toward these eldern delights some lost zaporizhian general descends from the savutyn summit and hands me runes and translating says in art dont make death what it isnt and what isnt it

in other words think by not thinking move by not moving fight by not fighting as heresiarcha celadon bunting says she says and strokes his boa and it becomes like those museum sculptures that certain parents avoid and commuters around like leptospirosis and sulfur dioxide and all in their own worlds that is the explicable inexplicable world

loss is a kind of property he says as she removes her pants and underpants and the pants yet under those until her yaws present and shines like alsephina and some glance from their phones and go back to it like devotees of a sect without precedent or future

loss is a kind of property she says for which we have only the most puerile measure but these assets are of different regulatory structure and currency than those of conventional accumulation and she gropes for his controversy and seizes it rightly and places herself as a dispatch or commission and guides it to her sprawl saying the serious world as we say we know its but a sembling of a ramshackle feretory habitated by the relics of ancient satires whose biographies and effectsve been lost to meaning

and the ballocks slap against the pudendal butter like wanton church bells and those liking & froing & waiting & toing in the atmospheres like starved vanities and the two or is it more compatriots after completing the rite of outcasts and presidents whether in politic or dream sing a song in doubtful unison and a few of the rushing waiting whonyms toss coinage toward their open gonads and the song is that old favourite mankok bangila lumplump and it goes like this

the wicked have eyes

and flowers have tales

so lets my love

put the world on sale

it may not be ours

but whats that to us

wills possession

and the hours small

the trains are coming

a bear is crying

the wicked have eyes

and the hours small