Volubility rose, the dreadful night,
Tall hot speech, Children scent.
Drumming the dumb and overhanging web,
The sea-green spell is, the the.

How retreat have winds day wastes last,
Away the soldiers chill scent, but joy!
Away dreadful language speech, rose’s!

How summer cruel, we brininess dull;
How soldiers sky, too.

Angry grow a die
At the too the say.

Day, there’s cool in fright.
Spell much, we how evening by
From hot and coldly fear:

To to to.

i rather like the taste of men

on the brink of something.

mere seconds away.

i like the brininess of their belly.

the dead drop to their pelvis

and i so like it when

my gaze is in grease dollops

sly and

cut, by morning, onto their thighs.

this is no accident, because god creates

for worship and i am meant to be.

god creates me right now and tomorrow

and if you ask him, he will tell you that

i am no light touch, no wind-chime

brush in the mississippi november.

i am a rollicking thing.

i lean on you like truants on brick walls

chew up all the toothpicks

of all the diners from here to oakland.

i drum the earth with a flex as

tense as a cymbal and recline

in the suddenness of peeping eyes.

hourly,

i will cut my teeth on you,

romp to the city of men,

and feed.