the marshlands get stuck like ketchup. if you
read carefully, you can hear the thixo-
tropy brewing in that water.
in the face of the hollow steed, we collect
multitudinous bodily adornments. the lyre in the pantry
continues to suggest that we have not yet lost it, but the
catgut comes to this.
the third block past the light gets you up
in brambles. with a cigarette. as you like.
the water doesn’t work, if you remember thixotropy,
but this wasn’t in the book anyway. years later, the telephone’s
still on display as a sort of wax-slug prophecy.
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quite profane
October 3rd, 2006 | #