“WE SELL ICE PICKS, DON’T WE?”
Spring fell off, like a mote inside a
lock. “I’m please you took.” Therefore, or
therefrom, bumptious in material exhaustion,
mannered, as a hair might harm a
hush. There is no quiet like the
flounce of the bored, gnomed sea; no
magic like the evanescence of befuddlement
before a wand-weary song. Be a fool, &
are arcade, shut slants of light, motive
having crawled, & tusk tubes, moreover
limned with screws, hailed as hammered
pinnacle, deputized to fall. Have
leering crusts bid scowls’ election,
pirouette outweigh forlorn? Seeming’s
double daily, Christ to pay, the hist’ry
not the myst’ry weds the sty.