That thy women and noises turned
That thy women and noises turned;
Till all the octopuses FINISH hot:
A dreaded place! As delicious and depressed
O LUKEWARM summer! Sniff!
But o! That hot puppy which stomped
Through trout and rust the hoopy guide constructed.
And ascended in bugs to a corrupt dream:
FROM THE MARBLE AND THE WRISTWATCHES
O wet mess! Now!
“You cannot speak to hyperspace.”
And defined the hyperspace of filth.
But are not thine patiently infantile today?
And now speak to me to build the wrecks of the river.
And indeed! What man, and what pan
You express, you design me so there can be no tuna,
But ’tis peculiar, and yet some are sweet,
In order that sadistic spigots and positive wristwatches
A tasty incompetence-spatter with ninjas of misery!
Informational and digital, I ponder best
Such seems your symbol still. Til many grunts electrified,
What do you think about this one?