Malebolge is a hut under Hell.
Lame sisters rake heat into blisters.
Leaky boots are boats built
Of bones born to burn.
Thunder from corner to corner.
The stars start to come apart.
We pressed aggression in
Pointillisme past measure.
Walking with ephemerides,
In parlor séance theaters.
If Chaos defines not as disorder
But inaugural absence of Form,
Crows sell soot still sew with wire.
Owls sough through horns.
WHAT FORTUNE TELLS DUMB BEAUTY SPELLS
Never lover lived through pictures
Looks over things an airy gryphon
Which are and were both high in mind
But betters a plague his riled head sounds
Pascal had his abyss that moved with him
How many times must I shake these clown’s bells
You used to say when comes such subtle sadness
What will every other sin.
“Would weary word, shroud in book…”
A little known word’s misfortune.
They wanted only to show
Cradle into which this hard ship must descend-
He who ever hurt this theory
Hadn’t the madness I was under
Is Queen of us and ours none wonder
Nor has a need to know its elf
Sexual widow sent back yet once more to her impotence.
Surely the singer has talent,
But you like the ones at her sides.
What Watt Night
Lite Do you usually
Use? Please phrase your
Answer In the form of a
Question Other tricky ones
Are: What two words in
English Rhyme but have no
Vowels Are uttered by an
Arctic animal When it howls or
Growls? Brr Grr.*
*(In English in the original.) “Shall we bequeath a wealth of Wreaths? Will the poor then stop dressing like artists?”
I so wish to remember Poe’s future,
Whose lone dull tower fell;
Unvisitable now by the living,
Poet hired out from his wild idleness…
Geoffrey Cruickshank-Hagenbuckle is an American poet and art critic. He lives in Paris and New York City.
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