Vol. 7

Crowd Pleasure


Sundown, a choice occult
honeypot steaming out the U
in daughter. Our mountain
vantage affords a twelfth-
century miracle fork, His
Blizzard’s whinging writ
of seigniorage. Our incident

audience bolted to fealty.
Cheek to atpouring, sprung for,
old-empiric, what officiates,
the gavel? For which man won’t
repeat the holsterlick, the resentful
glance’s pouchful of grease?

Crisp shock whitesweeps
onlookers’ scalps, demons-
trations graph backwards
up the sky, St. Anselm’s artery.

Now in scorched horse we rubber-
neck, talking moire. We close, pubs.
The whole of sex is to swat a mantis.

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