by devi beloved

the ancient honesty of your name, & again the gloam did not beseem too rightly, never did feel real or culpalpable of verity // a lemongrath devonshielled the whisk of his beater, which i lay shyly by his side like the faery minister of a world begroaned & tugged asunder e’re i fled // the slidge yet bilges oblong, wriggles nicely slant as if the meat was cupt in the sheath of another: his sherryment, everwell & never, therefore floes aslide, legging out the fligament, & reciting the froam of all that could have reft (& yet unshriven) // minsy depaupre, wimsly deliver, those bracing godsmacks may never bereave the lax slate of the undressed, the feebling miscellany of one scant besweathered to the fumes of near & how // memory likens fact to the hell of the present // wishing i were true, that which i will to be nought but you (& i rue) // you were a guardhouse rent on the trellis of terror, & i, in your midst, merely took to be a berevracked flinter & spindled away // thereafter the tongs sung shivvies bewilded, giltressed in desulter like cornfrog remonstrances, evitable by inches in the seed of devilled herring (which the pantheon of tremors hastened us to forget) // so folklong the browning & weave your own mask //