when they said their **** against Marcus Aurelius
then they said a thing about Commodus -
and then i watched the blueish woad:
as said the heart have earned the fork in road
or the forevermore for the upcoming usurpation -
blunt grey admittedly:
all jotted a count for,
the 5 good Caesars -
O my home, that's Scootland -
a land i neared to: but never had -
when no noun be an Ascot toward a verb of nearing
a had helter-skelter off a saddle - later said: a bed.
oh Scotland:
such that via venture into Hardian
a tongue could be spoken less!
spoken less and thought of more!
and you could say aye to a yee - toy a princess
toward a girth of a robin's beak bullying a sunrise
into a cry... as parallel toward a mamma mia or
akin to fudge and marshmallow chuckling chastity
chewed for that "necessary" calorie arithmetic!
or runny gooey choc: then i be then i be the one for
hunting fat carps in a lake rather than
the kingly rivers of no return -
or how it was all right back then:
are you man enough to be staged?!
oh but when the void is but a yawn - what then?
what care to say profound things?
honestly: none, whatsoever.
then you turn and say perfumed things,
rather than profundi necro - via
de profundis: or the profound contra of
dead profundity -
resurgence of the Oscar Wilde cosmopolitan.
as some said, merely: piglet,
but then some say: rightly prozac pink -
blue to ******, and white as salt, as sugar,
as *******, as Colombian death-opera.
the dead are profound,
agreeably they are, bound to be found,
they're a little bit obvious,
X always marks the spotty acne bound parishioner
readied for liturgy - and isn't that a cherishable act?
pay the proper price of pray...
still, the adaptation of Macbeth
with typescript Shakespeare agonising ****** tongue
sho' sho' short and all the better for it - was:
and if ever there was a home for me,
if ever,
it was neither England nor Poland...
it was somehow Scotland, somehow too the remote
Scandi Faroes Islands, a very much moochie *******
stance on Verstappen (v-necked sh'tappen 'appen) -
i still think of woad as blue,
and Commodus as one of the five righteous
emperors who did good...
yet counter is not unrepresented - surely
not kindred of Caligula - woad is still synonymous
with blue in patch-fazed sloppy when it was indeed
tempered with intentional tartan of purring purple;
did i say something profound? obviously not...
did i was anything at all? obviously i did...
did i say more than the wind rummaging a tree
to see autumnal revisionism in lost colour
stemming from green? i d' see indeed!
an epitaph as more than my trinity name
and by date more of residing worth to
gain breath and so forthcoming take to losing it?
if not as failed individuals didn't we practice
the clarity of procreation for dietary existentialism
being necessarily practice, in light of the need
of not having failed? then too no motherly motto
strand of thought to listen to: or a gym membership
not being joined: as much in need
of criticism, as so in need of actual members -
for the laconic treatment of words
and the high-notion of advert -
from " " capsules of the 20th century,
through to the shortly lived ~, or question of
ambiguity,
into the ***** of what's necessarily there:
of a question, that's a ~question,
that's a "question", that's actually a -question-
or how prefixation became exaggerated:
or how every single blonde-**** reader
started to behave like an english teacher
and did the herr salute toward getting excited when
punctuating their own punctuation was a
bit: overshadowed - kindly put: underused.
