phrases like ‘a map’ & ‘quiet head’ are in vain;
my dorsal fin seems a colonnade at times but
with cunt-culture qualifications noted then blown
aimlessly we, we are, cultivating a marquee!
the door shuts on fuckup poems or sympathy
cards trees planted for the utile value drugs grown
to a place value. ask me pi i’ll get back to you.
if you want other contrivances, lines of neck
action… earlier we’d think lapidary images:
processes, montages: all is well. australia is quite
deep & by publishable i mean desk! (she’s in
a brusque spot: rugged compost left by a male)

you’re a virgo, else, a 2004 boy out to dinner. search
for lost lego, scurry at the chance of antique jokes. anway.

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