by devi beloved

a manner of surtweil prexelitude dealt the figurehead of blows, masticating sawchinks in the poragepotted hope that the end would ultimately deflummox the sordid means // whatever the weather was the mind in aghast & turns of dumb denoaning, of wretchked & hibbrous ghosts that whisper folkloric phraseturns in the dewflecked depths of your dirty desires // some things do not make sense ’til your turn them all around in the  outskirts of your mind // i wish pevensies had earlier forsook the tumultuous fevvers: the feelings now are purled & crenely, somewhat slipstitched as it falls in the overarching play of patterns // the motives resplendent, girdth like noboddady’s bizzo, the knees of another saltcracked & thickened by the trenor of missus bouvier // i will not never, no, not forever // when your lancashire steplets were on my fagles, i coulda sworn you wanted more, i woulda sworn you wanted it all & all // the precipice denounces its own terms when the chunder turns ‘sunder, when the wield wills one from the grave of another // to give forth nothing but a hook, a crust //