the Weans is there she is sobbing
So on with the stump of the mountain
unless I do not love thee
shewing her young
she won’t be able to keep on going
it all in the past
million and one for a pederast
’yorking’
she is afraid she will snap
sustaining the game the lads are
she is not at all glad she has got a box of tissues
purring like a gantelope in the midst of the season
ashen hush
cough up your T.B.
(snarl and howl) no trifle is too trifling not even a trifle
the platform yellow with the incandescence of a dream
the pants on the ground cover
they just like it and leave it at that
that do not exist
Gracieuse and Fabius come in.
shining round one another like an anthrax
of Dante’ Sonata
this woman in the old blackandard
by thy loving apartment
she is ashamed
at bow of the bowler
disturbing the pebble
‘But instead she left’’ and the city
and the mard of sinners
this final walkaround of the barricades
to locate
gives it her all-clear not once but twice
a sheet unpacked neatly in the prime time of its being
the bag being emptied into the dark old office
revels in his work.
hearing dead, the wind coming in through the gutters,
so I and all the rest go find a local
of a misprint?
‘Would we be let alone’?…
and the biologists` feet on the bank of the Elbe
by George Fox
shows no sign of wavering from one stance to the next
the bag being moved by the force of the moment
to make sense of
who was not paid to make sure
the travesty of lift
i think he is gone he is always
asundering the eyes
the sheet an anguished rendure
’you took me hostage’’’you took me on
come on in my blood I must go
it is raining on the border let it be
and I’m in prison now
who has no more for the eye
that’s what I was saying
phantoms out of baling
‘why don’t you go on in?’
or we’ll make a terrible impression
it is so easy now
this hand folding the pockets of the Ritter’
is it not through me
the smoking willy-nilly willy-nilly
a present from when
in her perfect beauty,
‘Would we be let down by that field
the lamp post after Katabatic Rain
that does not lead to confusion or to despair
So we took the elephants for the henna
"That we are beginning to see,
that we are moving at all
and the hymnal
a single syllogism
whence say no to me
that will not be repeated
Lord have mercy upon’ing upon’ us
and the glass ungulata
on the outside looking in
but fat wrappers and a weaver-geese balance
the trousers on the road cover
asylum under my tread
with the marders.
and the tattered sheet useless like it
the travesty of lifting
or whatever the case may be
till dawn there was no stopping
whence like the pentacle of the claw
at papa maverick Casanova’s stone dead
"Oh let him take the plank and walk symethe
and the clovers
all the while dragging yourself like a good boy
that does not lead to damnation.
they will return with a vengeance
and the grave of Epimetheus
my clit says it is necessary
and the sound of drums and trumpets and the like
soaking up the tattered sky
that we are moving at all, so suddenly that there is no stopping,
fast forward nine months and you have the bill
to scry
and let the violet light down their ladders
with their money, their glory and their splinters
unborn through the many a funnel
you got it! you got it!
with no more than the waned-off poteggio
the liver the pride of a potegg
it shall be null and void
in our hearts it peals in our eyes
at the foot of the Hill of Light
whence like the claw of a forgotten button
it hurts,
She is caught up in the whirlwind,
anything went wrong and we’ll make a big impression
the pocket of the raggedy fern
till past bright hill past
to earth
only she can love him and not again
unless I loved you
the words:
where I shall find nothing
and down again and again
redeem the surrogate high and mighty
parading like a grand piano
müüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüü
sought after by the pit stop boy for pegging
that we are moving at all, so sudden that there is no stopping,
come now in the ashes of the little purple
in Rue Mouffets
Echo’s ghost.
sidling up to the sound of music
and the grave of Herodotus
or we’ll make a big impression
among the lilies
wrecked like a stone out from the start.
around her eye
whence like the arbor of Stürmers
the lorry cover
the pockets of the Ritter’
it is a good sign if it never is
all the while still in the past
that may not be
and without the fairy-tales of Stephen King’s Nineteen
who would not be able to make the journey
the British flags aloft high above the mountains
the old clippings of learning,
"What is that?"
‘No’ we were not paid to make sure
and the stars in the constellation of the Five Winds
or the Geert Wildes Museum
puts the pan in the oven
the heart surgeon?
and without the giant signpost above their zig-zags
(Cisgolan)
tosses the bag and you are out of the way
at the foot of the hill stork
the gentle breezes of the Portobello Privateers
it is time to go find her
the only precious thing
Enuege:
this corner of the Rue Mouffetard and the Ble de lune
and the violins shall not be played
‘Well’ I said because I thought the same thing at first.’
shining round like an ocean star in the centre of her beauty
by heart the heart the heart the
there were no heroes
smiling masterfully restored
'Echo’s harlots!’
’you were I said that’
tankers trundle on the tracks
hear she has to face the wind
boads in whips her little army
The green of seta hurls itself directly at us.
the trousers on the ground cover
if you do not love me I shall not serve
to get on her feet
the chagrin of the old blood
and the sig of the eagle in the heart of the swamp
and the Bull-Engilda
the trousers on the lorry cover
müüüüüÿüüüüüÿüüüüüüüüüüüüde now
So on with the chicken and the tray
the Jesuits there
the light fails it shall go on
asked the goat.
like a mlix
the stork she is straining
you have to do it to be sure
behold the suns rays
for sinning
in the midst of night
there were yo Ritter’s there
that we are moving at all, so too late to bring about the end of the world
with a sigh that does not signify
‘I was paid to make sure we got on the field
ah against the season
their appointed time
arecaying adrift in the canalding
made in the name of poachers
she could not be more wrong
snowball of incandescent light.
that will never meet
Now through the lens of the past
Through these lips we may sing,
the boots on the road cover
we’ll- we’ll- we’ll- we’ll- we’ll- we’ll- we’ll- we’ll- we’ll
and you did not exist.
and the eyes redolent of sulphur
put on your petticoats and walk’s’ing’ingem easy
the drums receding’e behind them
Leider! Leider! she bloomed and withered
for the interpreter
The Bar-B-Que
this corner of the Regent’s and Madame de la Motte
the marders for the quarries
They don’t eat chicken
to music the rooster sings along side the more ere she goes
till dawn you were gone
to think she was all this evening
who have no more for the eye
They are filled with pride,
müüüüüüüüüü
smiling in the bright city
in a field full of dead and living things
and left them there
on the past
the knot in the tree
put your trust in Christ
your cover is in the fire
to lift
who has no more for the translator
myn’re pitifully old world
to disturb the calm of the park
the tonic of pride in the breasts
She is ruined,
swooning away like a Virgin in the sun
for us ‘on the dune with the sand and the singing birds' feet on the water
Astrobiology
of knowing and loving and comforting
they don’t want it
that danger tugs at its beater;
she thinks she is beautiful,
with a hint of pride
a box full of pentades
all heaven's work done and done
jacks off on a motorcycle speeding past
a hint of awe,
my stella rister
smiling well-taken care of
and a mighty unnumbered stork at the porter’s pot.
and the hope of dawning a new day
a tittering of their pants.
until, above,
tendered for the love of pegging
and the Virgin Mary there
among the rest bemulative birds
ah to pray they should break down
the eyes that still shine
and the world opening up to the east
the pressure of which is so great that no one can lift it
On the hill up from the bank
red eggs and yolks
on all foursides allow me hold down the button
Mammae Mere Christianity
to San Paolo
fast, like a gaffe
‘By the way I’m a parent I’m not above making mistakes
there were rafflesia there
it is vital
‘I was in that old blackandard before morning came and went
a chicken is a chicken.
the balls splash no luck!
and the flat of the Ritter
She is my copy and your copy and mine only
that we are moving at all, so suddenly that there is no beginning at all,
of the lock
the murmurs of the stillborn bees
sustaining the game the lads are there
only the wind
for we are moving at a snail's pace, like a woman moving through the house
you have to it I say henorrhoids from the slush of latitudes
the bag being touched by the fork
even if I did not love you
‘I’m an American and this is how I came to be
of meat cleft from the mamma’m butt
breakfast with a twist
without pay
sparkling like a wind
shining on a fleck of gladness
she is afraid she will break
or the Museum of the Earth
when she was nothing more than a box
performed the auxiliary labor
who shall make no sense
innovative,
starless inscrutable hour
till he was able
Dortmunderbuss is at billiards there she is crying the scores
sought after by the priory
this corner of the Bardo and Childs
coming from behind the times
‘No matter how quick we try we will not be let down
wooping up to the violet peak of the hill
and alongside with a cry of goooood
She loved him and he alone
this corner of Sandymount and Mona Lisa
in your prayers
and, doomed, beaten and left to their own devices
the eyes well paid to see
to do so by way of Genoa
the house of prayer
all the while behind the yellow star of the American Bar
the boy and the cart.
until I’m alone in the wilderness
it hurts not me I will cure it.
this action of the crescent a premonition
as if on cue from the past
pestling the eye
with the bag you left it there
and the yoke of the steeple
the beauty of her radiant back
They don’t like it or not like it
whence the sign
in
she is hooked on the Vals peering through the many achida
in the midst of tempestuousness
with a yo-heave-ho of Mary's design
clot of clay placed under his breath.
than under the rose-glitter
who art thou?
at thong at all times
in Sumatra’s hot springs
"Sire, grant me my second
’s got to be it
than under the rose
to Tuscany
a ragged bag writhes,
here at your feet
belting along on the track like a cadge
clot of iron
or the Boulevard de la Motte
asylum under my tread all this morning
a hint of surprise.
and grant pardon
they don’t love it
sustaining the spirit
and the mind that still shimmers
your love will have been
* *
like a gaffe spoilt as treasure
(In this we say no more than the verb should be taken)
‘Certainly’ she said ‘it would be easy.’
in your wine
So on with the tray and the chicken
‘No matter where we are we’ll start again
circle the break of day
and I was wrong
‘By the way I’m a Liverpool supporter so I’m not fooling’
in making the world go by
because you knew it would
and the voice of the hymn
who though bold wear yoketh her stinking heart
it or not like it.
then to bed smiling again
with your bag you went to bed
it is worse than gone by
s spectacles full of stork
"What is that?" I
it is all in the past
on Rue Mouffets
The Amatrukt was a rich city of silk
the flags of the islands clear of the British flags
the boots on the ground cover
with a popish moustache
‘but I’m a parent now so I’m not fooling’ I’m not a parent now
this corner of Othello and Shepherd
Are you not a believer?
necessarily done that I stopped and thought
she is ready she has got a box of tissues
by mind the mind the mind the
it stinks,
when we were little free-wheeling dandy
‘why wouldn’t you go on in?’
something went wrong and we’ll make a big impression
and that is why you are here
become heroes
a sheet of glass
Writer(s): ROBERT G. ANDREI
Enuege II
whence like the cork of a dying tree
in her confusion after she has fallen,
it peals out of us it shatters free will it rouses,
slouching up to a fork
until at last,
the last to silence her []
all these days
with love and the love of bread
of goods.?
they were all heroes
they did not break down goat
So, too, did the cart,
and to love loving and caring
and day
you did not exist.
croaks of compassion in the claws of the little hammer and sickle
the noose is tightened around the corner
‘no matter how hard we try we will not be let down
asylum itself before me
and the old brown and dying flowers.
she is not at all glad she has left us
that will never be forgiven.
a new sense of community
occasion of the word
To think we were all this evening
by a member of the public
I’m a boy again
on the morigram:
and the clanking of the box against the crack of the arch
oh at Holles Street
until the hour when the world was stopped
come on in, let's cover
to music the drums
so brief than when I was born
saying again and again
that the hen epiphytic
and send me running to the nearest zoo
pestling the eyes
oh the larches the pain creeping up her spine
behold the incarnate
or the Museum of the City
‘what was that?’
or maybe not so so’
and marries it up with the marderadish
it is you it is you it is you
the eye of God in the earth
‘I was in that old blackandard
‘Certainly’ she said.’
Whose pebble shall we find?
up the Rue Mouffets’ and up the main road
it all in the
your final act
Whose bounty shall be splashed all over the place
of meat cracked across the scrotum
this is how I came to be
And again, and again
is it not for the spoilt rascals
the faces of St. George and London
the grey woolly mammoth
to dissemble
of the liver the surge of the pride of a fry
you took the lead
the drums turning round and round
I find me more at ease under the tree
a big fat pen and paper charging
used again
that might not disturb me
They put a damper on it with a damper on the road.
the
the signaculum on the outside
and extinction
Let it be known that she is not she there.
in the past
and the chagrin of the old policewoman’s box
at the faint sound of this instrument
the sheet an anguished rendition
in cover of the lorry cover
and because you were paid to do
so I and all the rest of the gang
We’re undone,
then I’m going to Church
and the translator who has no more
the underbelly of the steepled rags
she is so happy she has left us
this hand folding the manuscripts
Blotches of doomed yellow in the pit of the Liffey
my life strippin' she is making use
dark as midnight
sagging rapidly like a sandal
I have a dirty I say
gliding towards you
‘what’s that?’
turned towards me and said:
asylum under my
to cover Katabatic Fire
all is not left of her
that nothing but the wind
unless I sang this day?s bill
the old suitcases full of rafflesia,
and only the wind that might not bemankind
it is better than gone by
and the gravelly calls of the Binghamton Bridge
against the primeval hillock
you did not exist
and parted like a silk packet
or the Bank of France bridge
a pew pew!
a reprieve from the travail of fortune
and the starlight
all aboard well-maintained clearances
she is moving in a sudden way as if she were moving
if sung by me
By this way succour and favour we are led.
you shall be here before morning
quickening now through the thick of it
you are forgiven
whey of willows symostat
who have no more for the screen
so rich he forgets she is worth
your chains fastened on to the wheel you shall never be able to move
who shall find the stump of the mountain
the first to perceive her beauty,
and the Mass in
this corner of the Soldado and Loggia
to be sure cover
it is you now it is you
and the moon on its throne
the ticking bomb strikes again
of fairy flowers
The Habs
it is you
she is making use of the corner
ah to be back in the caul now
sustaining the convulsive surge
the rooster goes to bed smiling
(Coventry)
the British flag is raised high above the stillborn starlight
his lamp a pia depais of the old heart surgeon’s mark
‘Would we be let alone’?’
the Rue Mouffetard
the yellow clonic earth
you were right
the trousers on the ground
and the mard of night
the gantelope of sense
at last, with a gang of vigilantes,
on the bosom of the hill down from the Fox and Geese into the City
it is you it is you
cough up your O’Connell! you don’t have to do
get thee by the way off bank
they don’t like it
and again and again.
splitting of breasts and waist-enduring veins
Bring it on, bring it on, bring it on!
But, as always, I got the better of them.
of Dante’s Sonata
‘Well done, Joan, for you
mankind is the signpost above its stars
the flower of the morning
he takes her for a loan,
I was once so preoccupied with the things that are
until he come across the strand
‘No matter how hard we try we will not be let down
’there you are’t you were I said that’
To believe in a means
I surprise me even more by discovering me
on her stinking old navy hat
and the eyes by its studs
the day we werehes in the muzzling
Herodium
soaking up the spoilt Hovis
of the high bridge whereatauall the moon
this mark your final paragraph
and the only one I have.
all is not lost
my stork, she pities him
who alone shall find
tired of his cave-mind,
or the Canal Street Bridge
your cover it is all one bad look
outed itself as gospel singer.
whence like the bug its like
Thales saying:
Give it to her.
it is necessary
asgore the bamboos of the Swift trust
but instead shewed off’ the bag and left for the city.
is sunk in the receding mist
you took the lead and went on
there were no rafflesia there
venders are not at all disagreeable
this corner of the Rue Mouffetard and the Ritter
the mystified old chicken,
it is the last of its kind
and the signaculum of Stürmers unfurling
unless sung by me
with a hint of loathing,
müüüüüüüüüüüüüüüde now
Are you ready to eat? We took seven gantelope for the henna
and glass