My hayseed harlequin what’s a bloomer to you and a bobbin to him? Two grams of Melatonin won’t put the bitch to bed. —She’s mazing in bloody pastures. —She’s got a equinox in the head. Five six seven eight nine black angels—ten twelve fourteen eighteen fare-thee-wells— won’t scrub the slate to static— won’t turn the tone to knell— kneaded and seeded and gadgeted, well, it’s a why-you-dunnit and a heck and a hell and a moon-stung stutter and a hazy hotel when a kiss is a vanish and a flown is a fell. |
© 1997