'I am, and call down its end' the sad songs weep -
A sullen pap smear wrinkled in the flood;
Sewn through the ether of starvation they sweep
Uncanny: horror of horrors of love.
A calculus brood to the eve, unchecked,
These silent movers balloon and courting
Through lively makes; where the globe is slept,
Not a sound; these children off-height. Soaring.
Boomtown hum, and mistakes they never made
Though made pay are we to moist on Tory fuck:
All of these things cast through molten must we wade.
Where are we now if where we were, no luck?
Jack of Christ spilled on fours tightly spread;
Awash with nothing no, no flux. No. No flux.