|2||The Grotesque Persevere In Their Art Of Crafting Rainbows|
|The Grotesque Persevere In Their Art Of Crafting Rainbows|
| How many have awed at that spectacle! The sheer majesty|
that are the cliffs of Elysium! The ragged wall that feeds
upon the sky, the foam-rabid ocean that laps the asbestos
break of beach. Possessed of a tranquility so rare, none
blinks nor breathes; the only disturbance arrives in the . . .
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| You oil the angels, when it’s the god that squeaks. a trilling finch |
bourbon sweet with crutching yew twig and bur-rose sprig. a clay pipe
in the ventricle of a chamberless valentine bleeds a blue tourniquet of scarves… satchels a’ pecan kittened with bromide; each step, entry on, is soft shoe. the windows wake to orchid lacqu . . .
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