this evangelist
buttons with his big gollywog voice
the kingdomofheaven up behind and crazily
skating thither and hither in filthy sawdust
chucks and rolls
against the tent his thick joggling fists
he is persuasive
the editor cigarstinking hobgoblin swims
upward in his swivelchair one fist dangling scandal while
five other fingers snitch
rapidly through mist a defunct king as
linotypes gobblehobble
our lightheavy twic twoc ingly attacks
landing a onetwo
which doubles up suddenly his bunged hinging
victim against the
giving ropes amid
screams of deeply bulging thousands
i too omit one kelly
in response to howjedooze the candidate’s new silk
lid bounds gently from his baldness
a smile masturbates softly in the vacant
lot of his physiognomy
his scientifically pressed trousers ejaculate spats
a strinkingly succulent getup
but
we knew a muffhunter and he said to us Kid.
daze nutn like it.
almost immediately i feel badly. who knows what he was thinking. and poor poe, him too. peirce, i’m not so sure. if he had written poems, maybe i’d get over it.
it’s always such a dissappointment to see it’s ugly head rear up in your favorites… peirce poe and now cummings… to see the vacancy they rant about everywhere in their own words, filled in with the mob blabbering
i can’t forgive situatedness, certainly when it amounts to more than complacency