I feel like a chemist when I boil water.
Astood upon three toes.
And the sky matches the ground.
He told me we ought to blow it up.
Cuz of the moon.
An allotment of the ailment is being carried
By wagonmasters & confronters.
I pay attention to your punctuation.
Sometimes my teeth bend but don’t break in my bad dreams.
Of getting ready for Gertrude’s party
That never happens.
Receive the rowen.
We worked double overtime.
And looked into your mother’s eyes.
She could not smile then but she does now.
As assiduous as inexorable is
My final defenses are indeafsible.
A prerogative disinclined toward extravagance,
As much as the silver sliver of
The new moon is caustic
And the lurdan lurid.
The succubus and incubus work in tandem.
One pulls rope and the other gathering eggs.
No small surprise they work in sleep’s misty revue.
A dæmon to a dreamed of demon that never derived from the proper diabolical.
A small child born.
A mom and dad.
And suddenly you stroke your chin,
And I miss my train
Of thought again.
Scraps of yellow bits scatter my room
And I sit indian style.
Bow drawn. Arrows all a’quiver.
Quivered and quivering.
Set asleep amongst the Ingessana Hills.
Children recover souls they did not know
We are the doctor-diviners with a sleepy second sight.
We dream the dreams the sleepers cannot fathom
There is no need to fear.
I see none involving nengk.