Wednesday, May 11, 2011

352. 100 Lines

as an ostrich of

debilitated but hairless

ravaged by running

tenderly lost

an immenseness of forgotten

bulging burgeon

lachrymal mountain lakes

cadastral monuments

vergions of urses

by a corduroy bank

pleased and nonplussed

baggage rack of lamb

my itinerary, your life

a portion of potion

in ecclesiastical glee

birthright, hindmost

pestilence, pestilence, pestilence

coursing through caution

qualified joy

battered, not bartered

when lilacs last

deltoid bits of felt

with his fingers, slowly, then inward

exarctly wright

ghost of a spirit

scotch in the place of bourbon

her nia

her aunt from a previous coast

height and lowth

poured forth for portals

to ride it back to the shore

simple yet overtaken by complexity

over a restricted period of time

Malachi, manatee

Daughter, what after?

actor, an

not required but expected

turn now

the head of a moment

she did

it was as if tho not so much

birdy, birdy, sitting there

if not for words

it was worse to believe it than to see it

not without risking grave peril

sylph and sibilant

my mortuary mein

a garden of purses

myelodysplastic syndrome

marrower than a finjer

to point it out of the way

at least 100 stone

quarried into it

what he tracked or followed

in blest discipleship

until sinking at the point of iceberg

let us not forget what is best forgotten

man at a wedding

with water, with water

plantar’s wartz

worseless, and incontinent meaning

kneading the bread

eyes grazing the letter left open on the table

grass into milk

the kind of people you could not stand to be near

thus sitting

or shhh

the slice of the blade into forefinger

poke an eye deeper into

intense in color and darker than expected

he spat it out

or shhh

to be quiet so

there was a silenceness to it

all the abandoned birdnests on a shelf

at night the shoes they made

not windows

the light not held back even if the wind

a toy that ran through winding

had run through the last of his thoughts

coming to the end of his trousers

if not for the cuff he would not have been hit

it was him

not a good song but astral

the plain, the plane, the plaign

bargaining for simplicity

a small city out in the countryside and surrounded by corn

her bad joke

yoked and controlled

curried flavor

to do me, a

dore mifa sola tido

violin con fiddle

a man riddled with puns

once open

the sausage she called wurst and tasty

testy at the mention of it

texted because words were not enough

lost in the words

the words was yet to come

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