Well, com to Cerulean Nocturne, nex'perimental poetry 'log. You'll find some manual writings of invented language here. Delve in, undergo a journey behind the oblique mask of formality. Discover brand new forms of poetry. Associate your own hidden meaning from these Rorschach texts. Dare to plumb the depths. (Awl poured seas sub decked to pain and coffee rights belong exhumed and free circa twenty seventeen to the Scribblenaught.) Winsome tale. Luzum mind. Secrum wintard. Dish and find.

August 29, 2010


Esau wuld tryda tell that azye camehithuren yondersome
quonting the dawne, "Woulds't thou sands of yews greene
ovyer atrewsummoning riverwards of another's recented
anttagular instrew meant allyed tinticularism

Before stareback could rootsink, I swelled up an answerve.
Waved look away as if a moth had bothered. "Goan sourd."
He took the meaning even if he didn't quiter undercrouch it.
Horizon relatively quavered, overed into golden spillages.

"Gown swurd" was all that croaked from the warbicular
throat ensconcerelled, as it were, quite right in the light
of night dimming through photosolar shuttling
of a woven winkfest slipping and folding open,
then blotting out closed the plumbshine.

A massfront of slippence inning
particulinarily as unfelt mist wandered
through in constant passing orbit heating up
the twilit leftovers of a slowburned radio
shunning from half forgotten lives whose voicest
ensnared, earned an immediate release into crumbling.

As a cloud mouths across whatever colorless sky,
Ie was here for yourn to dew or die, so why O why
is yourse still alive, ayestress on a waiting table
turning in the morning gyre, completence off a starwunk
struck a beaming neutron sun.

No comments:

Post a Comment