I – V
I
playing inside the music box. Leaping to and fro from the chiming rhythms of baroque carnivals and elegant masks; lord pithy didn’t make it past the shores of jabberwaks as she tried desperately make amends to the fireflies that had sought out to make redundant the flapping of the wingedones—happily sailing past the trees and buffaloes catching her wings of the hairy threads of space and light not wanting to let go.
Places aboard! Best now to catch winds upward pips ranking not sees and seas and seeds ramming headfirst into the shortened bay lest all the gypsies and floaters in the words make hear towards the beachhead—then off! Splish! Splash! Waves make playbooks for treats and whatnot.
Elephants and asses romping a delicate waltz. Root! Root! Root! I picked the rightleft side all of the time with more being right than the other or not at least being as wrong. Thimbles now in black and white as morning upon the greys; oldetime religion photos show derby hats and diamond cranes.
Avoiding the case of butterflies and open woods and creeks that run white with foam, little fairies make landfall in the trees. So passing through sunlight on the way to the out of side and not trying to look back and see a space similar to itself so as to be open to the passing of dreams and
II
advancing, solo, alone oft in this world. Sprinkles of a fiddle; lest all approval; as much a hell—keep pace—wit and folly, all hooligans making bread in a cold oven. Grecian wilde cards playing an odd game of lust and treason frothing at the cœur. A post nation rebellion against the sandy stones that make up the mountain; granite wanting but unable to find the marshlands that yielded the stony birds to flutter away the souls of the righteous whores.
A pacified mare only sitting for land and bombshell virtues—aghast, awhirl, adoptee dreams hovering precariously close to the rocky ground.
Little grains of sand on the beach, flecks of snow as the candle light passes by—a single mare walking in a long, cold wood. Tension. Tension. Tension, vexed—I speak to the winds and they neglect the trotting hoofs. She let the little fears go asquint, a masque. Rattled by the sully there, barns awaiting and molls aglow. Darks then worsen to the heart an encrypted rhyme bouncing against space.
Holding a grudge against the now passing winds of Derpy, lest the faint beating of the sagegrass give way to the ripening of hooves. Who how then bees open a-fault spanning the gorge of the Everfree, preserve the hopes therein. Better the damned
III
swooped up into the arms of awaiting ideas. Flow forth the breath of drakes and smog a pyre of willing nations. She has now a piece of the joust, lest the threads of knowing make aware their station. No Ni Non. Ney. Leigh there—keep up appearances for those whose make themselves in the realm of fairies be more content than us among the living damned.
Those there—the partisans of earth and mud lay bare before the arch of history—pithy all. Clasp the motion to the stagnant and watch them whorl about in a combat of the cosmos.
Derpy opted to enjoy the realm; wise had worded Lulu and CPE. Princess Imperium leaked the word to the savages—let them deal with their virtues aloft from the plane that this mare has left. To say that they were indebted by sinn would be too frugal, even if the jesters would be caught dead in the white wine.
Purgatorio held aloft by the webs of sovereigns chaffing towards a remarkable dancepole. Fear and crafts—relieve—ripoff the masque du mort. Hand him then into the graces of this body politic! You are grounded by ration to keep up appearances, dearest sœur—still I look upward past your shadow glare to anticipate your reaction to this joust. I too, l’universe look to see you
IV
lodging there making beds with past grievances that have always been rejoicing at the sounds of quarrel and strife. Make me abode with this runts—for I shall enjoy them: platonic now—lest ye go first? Neigh lessons and tropes—you Louis II—and to this thee shall enjoy: placidly settling there smoking and courtiers cavorting in this rumpish parliament for the spheres of lucid absolution.
Oh you queen spinstress catching little fruits in your threads and making a comedy-of-cards. Indeed—caste you advance for these little twirling wisps engirthed: smarts making a comedy of these enraptured. Oh well—then Ovid divine: meek here room for der alte Fritz!
Oh lou-est humor—now for forty wills and palatine bulls—magna carte—eeps ye forget; those who yield chaos always clever—foxes all; dashing away with lesser virtues tied up tween their quiver and bullock—alt thine grievances unredressed by the consummate partisans that are unwavering in their devotion to their vanities—I call for a bonfire!
Ditzy lisped about lazily on her fizzy cloud—sparking and dreaming—all in good humor. Only hoping that the dusts that fly about don’t give speech to the past evoked druids. Still in the mists, waiting there
V
openly inclined to vouch for the zephyrs that go into for not wishing to come out. Hark then for dearest celestial palatine equine—for now tis only fair to rebuff thee! In deed and word. Let you tease these dangling crystals of sorry sorts of tweaks. These cosmos for that you morn are not requested nor relinquished—much less considering that the stability of the ethereal and the demos of the small. No!
It is not the wilted flowers that make their traverse across seas of bleu-et-vert, but the gentle humming of mocking birds that chisel away at delirious perceptions. Hung upon exiles! Chaos enjoys little in the protection of realms and heliosheres—of these wearies cracking!
Demands made upon the hills of foresight leaping into the open arms of greater smog: come unto the senses that make aware of the poor and plight. They enjoy no tokens of calm in an ocean of merciless infatuations. I can only put forth this image: a mare with an empty teat trying to nurse a sick foal, alone, raged in the cold.
A diddle looked down aloft—ahelm—ahigh—tis not sheik nor gay. O’er the world and its black trees—against a misty backdrop, hillside forests and meadows, walking alone
VI – X
VI
in the demandable seasons of mirth and pithy, les the sympathies and symphonies play to the rhythms of those who hath not forth yielded? CPE, I stand perplexed. You have only middling prospects if the fairies are to be trusted. You question the flutters? Only as necessary. Piff, pithy puff—you have made no headweight against the demos!
Inverted and irrelevant—had all the winds of derpy leighed cased against them, only to find out that the shadows were not well past the precipice. Those shades fortwhetting! Intercasted bare not slothing the pillars of onyx.
By my right and plough! Oh! Yet speak in treats and follies, fillies, frolics! I yield no such grace to the perpetudes of whorish, warish racketeers. Lo! Les moores make ill by the night, convince the rabble that salvation is worth a tithing. That all that they can do offer themselves as piqué picayune to the foaming—
Lest all the frolicking in the world was left to uphold tried and dried lands that have been ever unencumbered by the whiplash of thine verisimilitudes! Oh and speck of speak and hold the breaths of the wingedones! As all the world goes down
VII
to those Grecian shores—aye frothing abluth. L’état et les étates—maker’s realm and frontier of the vespers colonnade, holding court in the deference of light and sound. And so my realm affront, what treats and kush do you which to hold upon account. Weighed then by a feather to judge the tarsiers as a better courier of their own affrontaitons—lament with me that then we can only extract so much sang from the stony birds!
Not only to languish these ruffians, placards demand—caste into only what thine will! Make slave marche to the infernal whims of their own immemorial horn! O—et tu Lute!
Not o’er dissent—Moorish heads and wayward hastenings of those desperate enough to counterfeit the Visigoths! Or make way to the stranded shores of Anjou-via-Trieste-et-Roma. Oh—purse the standards les they hoist aboard the ship marked by strands of mirth and shelter. And pledge the macros-micros-we: to thine affront for the habits of this and every earth-en-tyme peasant danced into death!
Ditz to fear a copious—a conscript’s accosted play making marks on stones with brittle bread. Pause now and let the whirlers land fall twixt these two thralls. Inhale—exhale—hale to thee, tea time most appreciated
VIII
past the diamond foothills and openly into the storm. Vexed these potions of earwig and honey—Oïled tongues and quivered lips pursed a volley to the streams lay case to offer in parchment and silver. Fiddle, flutter, flow make this fizzer fissure from one side quaff the next! Dittle down past the offhand burn lest the sides inbound past to-fro the nexus, stitched up by the primson rose. A-bud, abloom, a-blossom, Absalom give the queen a rest.
An oak hill founded once to be a softer resting place, land twain the sky and sea. From there, vaulted, cake and tea and treats—beset that this haste extinguished by the fogs of space.
CPE crest her haunches to the perfumes of lilac and protosaccharine; Lulu dispelled a gaunt through flared vestibules. Incased in this whole allotted grimace—flix-a-flex—for what hold the power of the yearnings if not that of the core? Libations, libations, libations. As if all of Tartarus is vexed to heed the main? ‘Tis it no less the fools proxy? Yes, yes bitter life, I plead yes.
Then on hoof—offend the vanguards of the long extinguished muses. Runts rumbling, ramping, romping about in time—cast away
IX
by the raptors judging rafters lest all the seeds dangle on the wind. Palatine, come, say to the sky sprits that the drinks they pour are less lofty then their phantasms. If only. Hold onto it then, casted asunder by the murmurs looking towards the hearth astray. What have only then if the bulls run roughshod over the hilly mounds that composite the plane? Fear cannot attest to it, masques and pips make her no boundaries with denoting beyond themselves.
What dreary things then if only constrained by Chronos and elixir d’espirit; makeshift carnivals to the passing of the morn. No—out—out—! Let the flippancies accurse their own!
Ignatius calling to the world, all the good fools happily joust against the field of storms, grace and redemption offered without account of cause or cost, accost to the womb of violet flaxseed, died in the purple. The carte of the monde azure, vert. The ideas left aside for a time—so what of those sous dispersed, either way if the cold come back with the winds, how shallow the nested fools belittle the cues make past their wicker marks.
You Alaric, making peace in the squares with all the chaos and fluttery, futile, axed-to-grind against harsh rocks and rackets. If I were to denounce all envies
X
ceasing heedless against the shore, casting myself in the better graces of Helios. Therein lay the wisps and wishes, there to wisdom hold sway against our battened hatches. To carry this prefectory past the rex regis rho, hastily until the upside of the twilight spectre casts the appropriate shadow. Alabaster clouding made alluring in the greys—mists and vapor hovering elegantly, to opine the clauses of summer and fall, snows and flowers. The whole of the world whirling about in her aptitudes, until finding rest in a softened meadow.
This is not the fundamental square—for what is if the birds are of alabaster, what virtues could they sue or sew long if they have not the will for wanting.
Patience, patience in the face of confoundation, keep plucking away. Dispirited, yes, oh quaint frets locking about this piece of terra, but do not offer will to shame. She stood astride the window lattice, an old monastery, stone, roofless. There, still a-daze, still a-more, letting all the fuss and fritz dangle about. That she sees the seas rising; the Sees are rising a-la-carte.
Only open to those who made you, still there, meadowlands, still walking through the fret and the hush and the bother. All made up
