I,

  1. Throughout the | jackpot | I am wearing | a mingled stuff | that

    creates | the illusion of | an arrow passing through the head. The

    level features coloured bricks | clouds flickering | pipes from which

    flower flowers that eat | a ventoused skull that protrudes inwards

    away from the Greek. It was noted | The capacity was exceeded

    in the meadow | Somebody’s name | swayed from the pale in

    vested limits | antiquity's breeze pilfered | from a clusterfuck of

    a rig. What have you got there? | is where my bikini | was made

    episcopal | went bald in a hot wind | yard. The worst

  2. night

  3. of | laurel patch | is taken out | to understand the entire scene | as

    though from a great height | it falls from appropriation. Monmouth

    legs are sleeping | with the fishes | sleeping in his legs. Today I ply

    the injured drum | to montage the prose of | natural wear

    faltering slowly. How do you sleep yourself in the eye | at night

    to the sound of dolphins | mourning? The absent spire | in the

    water forms a pattern | to escape through | to divert from | towards

    the water where the lines used to be. Are we there | Meliboeus

    somewhere in the background of the | yet?