🚀 go-pugleaf

Ah, quick, does anyone have an anthem I might purchase for those who
wield the telephone well?  Better them than I, though when there's
interference with the mail, some with jobs might be well: Following
Up Dillingerently: The Schisms of Everyday -- and for all you Puritan-
ethic purveyors of the dischorded-cloth flock, Antipope, hot on the
heels of Bethlehem's bedlamination, rated boarding-house number XXIII
before the death of that strain -- need erubin to safe-passage those
endue(l)s forever and ever and ever ... draffable to yr pallored-
frenzies, the chattle Enemy dogbodies the Harlequin wheresoeveritassled-
peers she goes: The Taj Mahallowed-be-her-name presents no difficulties,
so it thus falls outside the borders of the cheating eriding domainland
("Put on my duty-taxed lean-to suit / And prepared to have nothin' to
do / Oh, I put on my lean-to suit / And I's ready to have nothin' to
do / Well, my baby, she's an essentialist / And I'm feelin' somewhat
misused" -- Thank you, thank you, that was "Shelter-Skelter", You've
Been A Wonderful Audience, Good Night!), long ago declared by the
omnipotentate a maelstrom moritorium on serenity.  The Enemy, bratticed
for over-seasons statistationing in Hell@Gladstone, oops, pardon,
Balfour Street (Vive la English in reflexive overtones of Sacred Cow
Stagnant Cosh name-appeal), rills the H-cross [Darling.] dais dado in
serpentine displacing of the Enemy's own hoveled demeanour.  (And no
need for Maths: zero-sum bifurcated is multiplication of entities, or
at least steps: my thoroughly unpositive grave dignity is smitten to
none by yr thoroughly unnegative quiddity, and you may collect quits-
call any ol' time (but don't even think of the other; the immediate
up-coming must remain (Just) so, even in LIBWCA-logics).)

Listening With Intent, Part II: A better Po-Et Viereck is, a better
Po-Et he shall always be; I've no stock in penitent-patient traps of
being magicked back to the loneliest nook where the rhythms are
stayed and steaded in end-stop-gap shouting of "Mother, I don't
believe you're watching": I could shout "Repetition Compulsion" 14
times; I could shout "Persecution Complex" 14 times; do I then, by
opposing, end with a prismed prisonnet?  And where then the
enjambivalue-addedicatalysms?  Special show on the all-new KILR FM
(now carried on BBC Radio 4 as Hit the North, er, East) to the
counterpoint of this proctor scion (See! Hostels fill with signature-
vendors! Witness! The strafing revelation of "How I Invented Cladistic
Man" in group of wingers, clips of strings of pseudo-eccl. pen. comp.
pt.!), yrs to behead.  Or, as performative, to wit:

Compulsory Romantic Phase (ho-hum): Would that I may dally beside you,
our heads bowed towards cobalt-rust skies surmounted by a dusk-appointed
shed as the latticed raft of our breathing unstills the consecrated
lair; and the band shall translate almost of its own accord to your
arched mirrored digit, the hands presenting the crowned heart as the
tacit crescendo to the hour which, passed, fears not that it may be
less than the finest the world could but hope to know.  [A churn-out-
of-sorts, but with the comfortitude that 1992 may also only have 11
months, and that the missing span might be mine mine mine; yet, also,
read: CHALLENGE (mine) to the inestimable of ANY else (or erse) who
might hope to do better in hoisting the cloister'd main.]

                   -M-