Jef les deux magots tells me rich fought james here no noise no one wanted here a scaly oak into the icy glare of sunset on eagle’s wing versus don’t play hogwarts legacy there’s a mod for that a haiku of drag down racing streets seven foot wide with a tedious grin similar to the passing train window’s laggy saggy salvage.
Wikipedia Poem. No. 866
Bad manmade structures effluent as a pistol and Caprus, while a good more easily in marmalade darkness, can lose things dreamt amongst millennials is that a terrible parts per trillion of iridium in engineering a recalled forecast about 2 years into the Lycus. The most common lyre is time someone has died during an outflowing of the alien. Laodicea is a ball. It's an outflowing, the inescapable parts perform more violently, about 20 parts per trillion of you can lose your thought, dear reader, what a dogged lover or gas to go to: The figurative thing is the alien. Laodicea is my substitute for a philothaumaturgical body of water, Asopus and their waters; Asopus an outflowing end. Are things of water outflowing or are there magic ends, while a good more easily my substitute forecast something like 2 years into any water or gas to go: They last approximately 2 years into iridium in the figurative thing of iridium dreamt there amongst the sheeply hills between the shapely forms of the bad moon in small rivers Asopus and Caprus, while a good more easily in my substitute forms bad moons in their waters, Asopus and Caprus, while a god, more easily in my godhead, news performs more violently and it's a ball. It's the figurative forms of a performative structure. Effluent is my substitute. Forms bad-out like a fan of marmalade structures. Effluent is their water or gas-to-go: Where the form more easily engineer a chemical reactor. Fluent, more violent, about 20 parasite dreams per beknighted forgotten desire amongst millennials. Situate the long spur of iridium in magic... shucks, we're talking about time, someone has to die. Only about 20 parts per trillion of you can lose the figurative thread. Forms made into a milkshake-like lattice. Effluent is the difference between lover-of-magic bodies and given bodies between the afterlife and, well, you: Bouton-de-Roses, terrible parasite dream, millennials, outflow of advertising structures. Effluent, in reverse, returns to the figurative think tank what a lover knows is how to make figurative the inescapable parts per trillion of you, Bouton-de-Roses, that a terrible end fears ends. Are we thinking in English again? is like what a terrible parasite dream amongst friends. Floating down the Caprus, while a good more violently, about 20 parasite dreams attempt to bring forth the common alien in law. Laodicea is hell.
Wikipedia Poem, No. 863
more accurately the king's horses relieve themselves on the peoples' road the debut of new consumer electronics consider a more influential movement on a less significant highway of mighty commercehead as the most influential movement as a poetic terms of service to whom? don't be so beautiful or vulgar or certain in a time of agreement with a small number like 2018 for example exclusively on ios today a version for video-sharing social networking service owned by facebook inc created by facebook ink was released a year and clear sharp language language has been information most influential more accurate consider the early followers of facebook they were thick with ink for years and mike krieger born march 4 1986 são paulo brazil a location most influential more accurate as a road through to consider imagism a road out it rode the early 20th-century and mike krieger and six months later in april 2012 a number school as poetic excretion created by facebook ink released by facebook ink secreted by facebook ink deleted by facebook ink it was caught and released a year later on small intelligent devices 20th-century and six lambs later in april 2022 school as a movement rené taupin dead 13 february 1981 paris network prodigy networking most influential movement on a small number exclusively on vine roped seine a pre-alpha version like a lost venison knife burned out school bus as a poetic created by facebook ink it toward history created by the programmers facebook ink caught and released every day like a hard drive 20th century and of victory of panic a school bus still a movement followed by the particular time of abandoned hive in agreement an unplanned and rapid exit
Wikipedia Poem, No. 774
- Post-home movements and the archtextual thing.
- Whisper leisure schools each prison disables each worker.
- And archtextual now accordingly whispers leisure schools each person they said Bruno Queysanne knows what he knows — the person is the utopia that is hard and boring.
- But engaged with language, the pronouncement like a mouse through an assistant’s body.
- History is this late evening.
- As she says in her religious underweight in May 1968.
- Upheaval but flexible; dictated by man’s whim or sabotage of the month club.
- This mass laughter.
- Students find art and, through an assistant in a students’ productive forces, an assistant’s feeling of injustice or sabotage the whole world in agreement once and long ago.
- Where to, for what?
Wikipedia Poem, No. 614
obscene odes on windows of the skull rural happiness of the book nature stealthily glowers orders a chinch from the middle of the night i do i do i watch the whole red attitude burst a sunday centipeded under what you kids do up high from the bakery floor obsessed á votre santé to becoming a book or divest a heaping fluted salary you must flaunt should flaunt & flip hair texture even steal you a parisian tip you transom into the monolith (for thirty year wardrobes over your shoulder that or these t-shirt saleswomen parisian-end hole suddenly wallet possible nevery morning since that order got me silked sommen i know flaunt the wake up spilt you slip next to slots time worn on your shore heart like a sleeve i'm here and talking to you reader salary red i do i do i don’t happen which is obsessed? i don’t have an attitude sunday morning & you a sudden
“It is replaced”
I’ll be staying away from stories regarding Friday night’s Paris attacks, as well as all secondary reax stories. One exception for the Nation & World page will be the story out of Libya concerning a mostly unrelated drone strike that killed an IS commander there. If this news makes it into your Paris mainbar or any secondary coverage elsewhere, please email me and I will make sure that it is replaced on your N&W page. -- away from stories one exception for the Nation for there if this news makes it into your Paris Paris will be staying away from our stories regarding a mostly unrelated drone story out of Libya concerning a mostly unrelated drone staying a mostly unrelated drone regarding one exception for here if this news makes it into your Paris attacks as well as all secondary coverage it is replaced in your Paris makes it into our Paris
And Paris, France, is still Paris, France, though we've never been there together but might if life were a little longer and no one ever invented knives. I am crossing the bridge again and the city is behind me being rescued or being destroyed with a leaf on the end of a branch turning maple-syrup brown. The first one. The summer's over, Jack Spicer, and I have turned my collar up against the wind and health insurance, the clouds and blue jays, against the gangbangers and insufficient funds. It's getting colder. We're turning from wheat beers to Stouts, becoming our fathers again, our exhausted uncles, bruising our knuckles against the tavern walls and young mothers, we're showing up for work, we're blessing the promise of ice and snow and football to come like the Israelites did with the sand, the gold, and the insects. It's raining, Jack Spicer, and I miss Matthew Lippman. He's walking through an alley in Boston, his beautiful hands and shoulders, his wife and daughter at home. His heart beating up his body like a heavyweight, the nose broken, the ribs broken— I'm not ready! Kiss me, take your legs and make a belt of stars around me, be my winter coat, my sobriety and bodega. The oceans are getting blue and the oysters are getting ready. Soon we can cover the table with newspapers, with the faces of senators and crossword puzzles, the oysters spread out over the sports page, we can open the hard shells and slip the cold soft bodies into our mouths. We can drink white wine and make a kind of Pacific out of lunch. I want to lie around the room with your jeans flung over a chair. I want to eat ice cream and have my older brother back. The summer's over, Jack, and all the waitresses are putting on their black tights like a funeral of knees, the bartenders are wiping down the brass, the waiters are drawing out their lines of cocaine like long strings of silk, pure white and perfect. I have crossed the bridge into a Paris that doesn't exist. Really, I'm in Portland, the summer's over and the last of the breweries are being pulled into the sky, becoming lofts, getting roof-top gardens for surgeons and all their beautiful brides.
From Matthew Dickman’s “Mayakovsky’s Revolver”
after Shelley’s Queen Mab
of jet So fair so wonderful a star over the suns the burnished over ocean bright couch Shaded there Be ethereal footsteps like rocks of Spells Enter the wave Edged wave When the will; Yet not; Of purple gleam
* * *
in glittering yon flood of thrill beaming over the Spirit Peeps like rocks of Heaven Stretching flood of fear the real palace Hung over the wave Upon the real palace couch Shaded their passive swell in red the immense jet And yet the sun's palace couch The ethereal palace couch Hung on the immense golden clouds of thirst
Should they call me what they call me When they come to call on me And should I be satisfied with all three When all three are with me Or should I say may they stay Or will they stay with me On no account must they cry out About which one went where they went In time to stay away may be they do But I doubt it As they were very much able to stay there. However may they go if they say so.
from Part IV of Stanzas in Meditation from “Stein: Writings 1932-1946, Vol. 2”