Poem to the Flarflist

The totality of a person’s actions
in one of the successive states of his
existence are like large African birds
of prey with a bunch of penlike feathers
sticking out of the from the back of their heads.
That worries me.
Our circular motions against the current
leave semiliquid, greasy secretions
of fatty or waxlike substances,
obliterating memory and moving
irritably sideways, do they not?
Sometimes I feel we are stretched over
a frame of toy musical instruments so
sharp and cutting , like ontology, that we ferment
before we dry. Are not our arias, recitatives,
choruses, duets, trios, etc. left open to
vociferous opacity, even when undergoing
alternation of impurities, as in ferns, eels, etc.?
Any edgeways process involves
a change or transition, refracting light and then reflecting it
in a play of colors, like taxation, or a man’s tall,
collapsible silk hat, but how to twist it more oozily?
Vociferous atomic bikini : soft mud or slime.
Hortatory sumac. Scrumptious scroop.
Gaping, as in astonishment: I have to end this screed now
with a clamorous swollen oomph: Oomph.

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