Why Syndney! How Grown!
Rush into smoke and
where are the feet and growing?
The body’s contained at the shoulders—
they turn like they do.
Little child sparking at the mouth.
No one noticing, all his guts
spitting flash things out.
Here is brown spot. London
burning up: prop a ladder at.
I’m very wondering. What.
That is one point.
I call it spirit.
Your mouth-spittle, good drip.
There are long waits and songs. Don’t
use French. It is called alarm.
We been chased— this spit at the moat
and we put formats on. Fat is
if we put on chansons, sounds—
I cannot deny good wonder.
O could I say a word against!
Not on it with what it was.
Soot; soot and pitch.
What part of you would wish to grow that way?
You groom you such good wish gone south.
Butchering: two brilliant volumes
2 hours ago