Triple Hymn -
(Irregular, with irregular refrain)
Uncle Sam's my usual muse but.
Calliope Urania & radioactive Polyhymnia attend for now noctes atque dies patet the door & yonic yawn.
under under the town & down down in the dingled dark where dirt lurks doubling its unlovely half-life minutemeal.
there nowanights in a hundred neon shoes the undifferentiated id endures.
it the id das Es is does whatever it is that it does & whatever it does it does all the time & does it what's more on one one-note note.
f.
wakes & works without sleep or wakeless sleeps a-dreaming.
a floorboarded tuning-fork f to which one need not palm explicit allegiance.
our home hole is there da there the unzoned mildewed classic wilderness the desert featured conspicuously in all the great scriptures of antiquity.
since the dumb dim id is all back its back is always turned so that the old words down there fuckuckuck each other's medusa kilokuntz with arson prix.
the twice-tolled tropic of excrement where love's strafed tent leans in the steady wide wind of will & blind pain in the jail of ringing rain rain.
the seedy birth the windy birth gapes like an open glove compartment.
a steady wind because it turns to stone when it disdains to turn at all.
oil & all ill liquids la the id dam drinks & drops.
the tired & mildew-shirted curb under the rusted sunset is a part-haired worn piece O & under the no more virgin moon flowerless whore leoparded with cleated footprints & driftwood the hoof-crooked signs of inert gas gesticulate hysterically in the one language most alien & most remote.
language to the dumb-mute id's id is I'd say the daughter of forgetting begotten under the broadcast of the dark dorsal of the sponge-soled moon.
the radio says rain the commercials urge listeners to be faithful to the f fork for the f fork is a reciprocating engine pump & pump a dancing pump.
the word & the moon both daughters of one cosmquake womb matrix & sprung alike from the one dark celestial triple cock whose coded name they say the marcharcharching band of buxom humping stars spells out.
our word's a mother mouse the owl of Uncle Sam will swallow.
& what the owl brings back up again when the undigested sun comes up is what the morning's poem resembles as the dance of dogs two by two & the moon-dewed wilderness ostensibly dissipates.
however the singular lordly id is an old con so can't be conned so ladies please breathe your clear & lovely breath collectively through ours & all our lines & lenses.
Uncle Sam's my usual muse but.
Calliope Urania & radioactive Polyhymnia attend for now noctes atque dies patet the door & yonic yawn.
under under the town & down down in the dingled dark where dirt lurks doubling its unlovely half-life minutemeal.
there nowanights in a hundred neon shoes the undifferentiated id endures.
it the id das Es is does whatever it is that it does & whatever it does it does all the time & does it what's more on one one-note note.
f.
wakes & works without sleep or wakeless sleeps a-dreaming.
a floorboarded tuning-fork f to which one need not palm explicit allegiance.
our home hole is there da there the unzoned mildewed classic wilderness the desert featured conspicuously in all the great scriptures of antiquity.
since the dumb dim id is all back its back is always turned so that the old words down there fuckuckuck each other's medusa kilokuntz with arson prix.
the twice-tolled tropic of excrement where love's strafed tent leans in the steady wide wind of will & blind pain in the jail of ringing rain rain.
the seedy birth the windy birth gapes like an open glove compartment.
a steady wind because it turns to stone when it disdains to turn at all.
oil & all ill liquids la the id dam drinks & drops.
the tired & mildew-shirted curb under the rusted sunset is a part-haired worn piece O & under the no more virgin moon flowerless whore leoparded with cleated footprints & driftwood the hoof-crooked signs of inert gas gesticulate hysterically in the one language most alien & most remote.
language to the dumb-mute id's id is I'd say the daughter of forgetting begotten under the broadcast of the dark dorsal of the sponge-soled moon.
the radio says rain the commercials urge listeners to be faithful to the f fork for the f fork is a reciprocating engine pump & pump a dancing pump.
the word & the moon both daughters of one cosmquake womb matrix & sprung alike from the one dark celestial triple cock whose coded name they say the marcharcharching band of buxom humping stars spells out.
our word's a mother mouse the owl of Uncle Sam will swallow.
& what the owl brings back up again when the undigested sun comes up is what the morning's poem resembles as the dance of dogs two by two & the moon-dewed wilderness ostensibly dissipates.
however the singular lordly id is an old con so can't be conned so ladies please breathe your clear & lovely breath collectively through ours & all our lines & lenses.
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