Friday, August 17, 2007
Buchholz's First Bone
Gathering your seeds in circular split breasts, hog that change, hog each new arc, promise each new tantra, make a halo around your own moment replete with chilled swords. Let metalled astronauts seethe with combative joy, quavering quasars dialed platforms unspeaking, soup arranged in flavors and dimensional tesselations. Your zygote is half curveball half two-seam chance. No cut giant waving green grass astonished could fund that austere check eruption you united and teeth shattered into teeth whitened, teeth suplexed. Frisked, let bleed your chalice like eyemakeup. Black foot Bruin, a twice bare fruit for the new age millenium minstrel. Tap. Up your cheeked carnival brilliance, light sword frozen into butter dawn. Shrouds over Gatlinburg; today droughts make our debut stiffer, more choked. Furred beef sleighride is to quaked fever tonic as swooping lopping cream is to a big dynamite curd shower. Driplets dripping down on Dante's hotdog, rich with lather and opulent customers danished with light and seed. Medallions of the sugar-plumped melting diameter down. Lost butt not recovered, regained. This is a chest for two beavers to discover on flanks of cannonballs, flowing into leather dams. Will my effectiveness in this copulation be compromised? No. It gathers steam and torque. Flutes echoing down among hair and breezes of stench.