The Waste Sign

V - Thunder in the East

                  V. Thunder in the East

After the gaslight red on sweaty feces

After the frosty cones in the Biergarten

After the agony in grony fcuk-ups

The shoting and the kvetching

Prion and preformance and verbing nation

Come thunder from the East

He who was dead is now really dead

We who were dying are now hosed

With a little waiting for the living

Here is no tree but only rock. Tree. Rock.

Rock and no tree says the Sandy Koufax

The way winding above among around alight

 the mound, reduced, to give hitters a chance

Which mound up of rock without tree

If there were trees we should hit and run

With the rock one can strike or sink

Sweat is dry and hand is in the sand, but not Sandy

If there were only squeeze amongst the rock and roll

Live plain anus of carious teeth that cannot spitooned

Here a standing candidates come and cum and become VP

The is noise on the catherdral top

Butt dry cumthunder with reign

Black flies little black flies every where you go

From Toledo of Mudhens houses

                                                                                           If there were rock

                  And no rock’n’roll

                  If there would be no rock a jazzing styled

                  And also jazz

                  And jazz

                  A simpering pop

                  A pool among the rock’n’roll

                  If there were the sound of rock only

                  We would have struck out

                  And dry gas in hurling

                  But sound of pop over a rock’n’roll

                  Where the harried-third sings in the stone trees

                  Drip a doo drip a drop

in Corthinians corner Coleman Broadcasts

                  But there is no tree, mighty Casey has struck out.

Who is the third man who always asks “How much tax free?”

When account, do mismeasure, cross the p’s and q’s

But when I look behind up the White House

I got rid of others and I’ll get rid of you too

guiding rapid in a brown mantle, hooded, keep close

Are you ghost or goblin or fare vampyre Nosferatu

-              What is the other side of you? Phant or donk? Is it the same?

What is that Soundgarden Hi Hi Hi in the fair

Murmur of murderous lampyrvation

We know the hoodless hoardes happening – all but a verse

Over endless planes, stumbling in snap crackle popped dirt

Ringed by the flat horizon conspiracy – betray by

What city beside the hill?

reCracks and retorts and rebursts in the violet awl

Falling towers over New York

Jerusalulat Athens GA Alexandria VA

Vienna on Washington

Unreal

And danced to the long grey hair tight with gel

And violined shouted Muzak on these Strangs

Baby book which granted him grace

Biswas, and ear their wigs

And crawled Tail Sideways up a blackened scrawl

And upside down in hair were e-black towers fell

Tolling recumbinent ells, from side to side

And voices signing out of empty caverns deep and extract hells.

In this decadent hole among the bimbos

In the stirring breakdance

Over the tumbled saves beneath the ever chapel of baseball

There is the empty capitol, only the furrows vice home.

No windows on the floor towards the chapel honorific

Dry Jones can harm no one but the gaffe.

Only a cockatrice waddled on the rooftree

cc: RICO cc: RICO Creative Commons

In a galash of thunder. A deep dark Vance

Burgeoning reign

Ganga was uplifted, and the going grass

Waited for reign, while the white shrouds

Gathered far closer, over frosty snow cone.

The Bangle couched, humping in silence Prince.

Then spoke the Thunder in the East

NYET

Datta: what have we given to the unmentionables?

My fiends, blood shaking your foreign heart

The awful dearing of a minutes surrender

Which an age of Ukraine without the “the” never reacted

By this, and this only, we have persisted

Which is not to be designed in our slobituaries

Or in memories drooped by the beneficent cider

Or under seals broken by the lean seal and dated

In our empty rooms in Dada

NYET

Zenyatta: I have heard the key the “the”

Turing in the door once and turn once only the key

We think of the key, each in his JD Vance

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prion

Only at nightfall, aethereal patterns that are not there

Redied for a moment a broken Coregonus

NYET

Day and some: The boat responded to the left

Graily, to the hand expert with soot and oil

The sea was clammy, your heart would have returned to sender

Graily, when disinvited, bearing obsolesce

To controlled bands

                                                                          I sat upon the sludge

Fish Net, with the acid plane in front of me

Shall I at least set my hand in place?

London Bridge is falling down falling down in Arizona

Poisson defecate chilled arispoca

When shall I use the children—O swallow swallow

Le Prince d’Augurienne à la tour Retour

These fragments taped to the DNA

Why then fig fit you. Hieronimo mad ride.

Data. Day and some. Zenyatta Mondatta. Let the pants drop -

                                     Moon moon moon