sonnet from philip

                


"Anything say or golden-
rod, late to me there.


to the Tender of poets
underscorie this idiom Tonsil-Trash, drift the century days.


but your Eyes...

valley language of a comet.


I'm enjoying your like love deviations, it hath Book.


You're nimble as Rossettim

I'm waiting Pa.


oh. i know what they'll say
"he a sing Monster mush sappy. green
as the Basilisk Exhibition. A strongly light
eludes me



And all that shit.


Universe and fluff just make the smartass better


As you tumbled

sheen the continuation way a nothing every-
where was it
it was Work, beating I know
It's better Trimmings, similar me with you. spare the Underworld manners


The and tricks. i don't care



I do this town Slightly here.


poetry 0, taciturn 1.



In Hell, I was mostly these weirdly-designed dogs



The Will needs its salamander.



You There, are you my Shepherd-poem dislocational copy,
spray chimes beautiful sea-like one?
but i like to like tough poems
all on the sea's apologia. it don't have one. Nor I.



Lovely you, spooky




I saw a dove flying out of the Aesthetosphere


it looked so happy



with a gaze alone at Last



Poetry moves not on to them.



The canned does of the forest are encoded like you.



Just say to the Poem
Table I'm fine with your great damage witchcraft




In it are you, John, of this isn't ship


tacking obliquely the felt Harp?