🚀 go-pugleaf

Calamiting onto the Puritan's plankton-feeder survival kit, ensconced
at the intersection of Morse and Braille, the voice the edge of this,
all this, manuscrapped cranial bend to pick out the things that go
bumptious in the night; "it's just someone falling up the stairs
again, no need to panic", self self-instructs.  Condemned or damned?
Remince me forthright to find with the sharp-edge cutback mouth-roof
laceration hook or the ready-steady-does-it-go stealth clamo(u)r
knocked-off corner shop crook any thing even mo(u)vefermenting into
Hero-role, Flaith-healer, sparsely a(n ad)mired Admiral, to coal-rake
a coked fine-coating many-colo(u)red birthday soot (Sept. 5), naked
glazed, with which to enCage you (would have been 80).  O! I know!
Yr M, yr primp, whadda chump, "Cretin" she self-quoted, cleaved by
the idea of prattelling scool's[sic]-out tales of rough-necked side-
riders humming chance-medleys of stilletoed steel-toed Blueshirts,
q.v.:

	The price to be paid for a fresh piece of sod,
	The skull that rests on the sand.
	Could those be the bones of Kevin O'Higgins,
	Who lost to the lay of the land.

And in future installments (a right-set pogromystic piece, y'know),
the bastille comes crashing down in another unnoticed Civil Warp,
the Woof of Hovering in Time, a reset instep for marching to what I
would most hold dear as (fa)mine, the famous ballad singer reduced
to penny-work pres du la fleuve that knows no other name, having
been cried out once too, and, pulling the inspiration from the we
are yr Muse misused pluribus tacendi, he sings yr name.  I stop,
dust-baked; and know that you have yet surmisted me, yr prize should
you so choose: I'd thought you couldn't lapse into a dreamy
approximation to the point directly above my heart and between mes
yeux (but, then, I'd forgotten that you'd quoted Pink Floyd to me in
the nearliest staged-scans of our nightclubbing) -- away! away! the
dream's still there, but just past my rasp; and soon to be standing
in (O!) the Forest Primieval, legal claimant upon attornied stock
of some New Fine Dazed contracted covenants (considered, albeit im
Brief).  What then, a song?  I Shall Not Leave Your Side / As We Go
Headlong Into That Night / Of the only violence left (op. cit.).

Is this pathetic enough?  The touchstone could be a headstone by the
weight of these self-abraised-&-basted cuts trader passed
                                      (safe at last)
                              & yr eyes Smile at me from afar:
"I did."

& I do.

M.