in forlorn mornings when fogs are in and mosquitoes brew in nearby forests and fogs seem a visible absence of a principle of reason and mosquitoes sing a new music of blood and mornings a promise not of day but a manifestation of a negation of continuity
in little pockets of trilled brassieres we take our dumplings and bearded titty firecapped longtailed tufted ashy darknaped sultanas take us to an absolute obscurity and there on beds of cinnamon bears enact ancient pervasive perversities
in erdag we trust and on a check of memory lost behind theurgic panels of intricate abstruseness forgotten under currencies so dominant even ravening imaginations conceive only monumented maps of signs to gestures of themselves
in tucks of digital atavisms we pass posts of exigent sacrifice through which those of us whove said your lines are lined like tsarist matryoshki through necropoli in alam haba and stripped of names and clothes and i with you and with and with say i am clemmed
in returning to some spaces that remind of some remindings our dumplings cold and crafted by possibly weird traceries of stained delaughtering and joyous knackeries and i place in place in places three traces of cognac and a thrip of rose
in forlorn mornings when fogs are in and mosquitoes brew in nearby forests and fogs seem a visible absence of a principle of reason and mosquitoes sing a new music of blood and mornings a promise not of day but a manifestation of a negation of continuity
