ayaladn

So are spray-cans,

on hood-balance, 1

act of an auto

graphic self-at-

traction, a despot,

an ashcan, the

tyranny on a

mason plumb true —

so politzian blue

avail, let’s say,

sketch artist or two,

& reparation

a scrub brush,

sm closet will do

over else, red-hand

as round key through

this principle

as bed of nails

or hot coals,

as nowaday

a spike of hair

pierce per cheek,

once supine —

you run this way,

what difference

the discipline,

a head to stand

one hand slapping,

as  n  u  c  u  r

a calisthenic,

or  e  deep bow,

f t  acrobatic

you shall not see

erelong the loom,

if thus we truss

invisibility of

fibers, glass &

copper filigree,

mad science,

weaponry;

what time a

vandal goes

poking holes

in Van Gogh,

no inch more

an etching plate,

the charger &

cemetery vase;

all pennies, to

an industry’s

measured pit,

one cloak fore

Nibiru, what

time Mes Aynak

this is Etruscan

panorama of

dramatic dia-

rama, from there,

prehistories, not

yet photogenic,

but clear view

from pedestal

fourth floor;

bunting, still

too new, don’t

notice you, till

midnight indigo

as in dictate

per digest &

in cafeteria,

careful usual

feed time; yes,

watch what time,

upstairs or down,

there flies around

red-cap this way ~

1st a fabric rumour

of loose tobacco

& more lint than

thread to do

formal buttons,

secretive as

Victorian etuis,

put them in

sm cap on that

or trashcan;

wooden shoes,

how they let in

ribbons & bows,

perhaps a mass

of laminates

& laquers as,

but string, too

bigger through

buttons, won’t go

eye, but frogs…

well this isn’t

a stadium yet