Fetch, You Feverish Fidgit, And Bring To Me All Of Your Maladjusted.
"Poetry must be made by all and not by one." Lautreamont.
Poem Six.
Your skin glows suckle
and across it blossoms wild Scatterskate
like the Dockadilly
in hopeful spring
As you leave the room
my heart follows your gallish voice
and leaps like the Liffy Barbtooth
when you call my name
Then
as evening
upon it's great windspan wingspun
comes falling
I am greatly comforted by your cute
buttoned up buttondown
that I carry into the scanglebeams
and hold there tenderly next to my buttus
And
as the scrapelines from my badly
shoemold fall
I wait outside for your secret
flinch, so that we may
codangle together
bonypart
to bonypart
each reaching out in search of
a magnificent flimsey
each reaching out in search of
the mythical plucker of love
This poem assisted by:
Love Poem Generator. (Link here and make your own.)
posted by Jon Lemmon @ 5:29 PM
1 comments
1 Comments:
ivxi The Sanguda Stick People did not believe in the past, in history. Their idea was
that all history was fictional and could be added to, or subtracted from, at any time by anyone.
Such history creation was seen as creative. As a way of building a more ornate present. Sanguda craftsmen would regularly create artifacts and then inscribe them with
creation dates many hundreds of years prior to their actual creation. Story tellers felt free to embelish and re-embelish oral stories at will.
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