all those pretty old poesies in careful limbic code are birds
exploded by the side of the road. every-day my way makes less &
less&less of a quiver as it passes over the pulver of a bag of bones &
dun rotting feathers. and the road turns molten. and i'm aflame, blue,
marking gold- if only the count had the courage to look, look, to look-look,
a book! of such disintegrated curable antidotal anec-dotings.
what a palaver, what a roadkill treat
to see a cat and her bothers coughing bones in the street.
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