To drink from potions by the jug,
and see the flavors.. Tire of this state; this Beckoning of females; lest we mate?
gems in the ruby slush dogma and shiny,
this is where they see me soggy eyed strut by the dame; pained by illness in the groin… Forever lest we mate, Mrs. Understanding and Mrs. Understood; you will see.
tis the winter of unearthing and the pilgrims; they are of Gentiles too… And like the wave of rationale these queers are brooding mediocrity, shame and wisdomless gambits: game of the flavorless! Game of the rung out! Gentiles beheaded and enter all that is coming!
(All that is coming which is of the dogmas’ mouth.. The wendigo hounding in snow)
And women too; golden rods in their slough which is of sacred geometry (for you and me) and her! And them! Therein shall we go.
digging through the fig and river drumming to the desperate sound of vermin in the juniper through thunder;
while the kept of little women in the cupboard of this place we call the pit transforms three in one (and one in three) thereof; pits of Little Mexico and Caspe, a vast array of what potions do we not; in vain however, do we must.
one stumbling rock is the way of a following; three must I go to bed… Four in denial of the five gypsy whores and the sixth rock stumbled past the hollow into the earth… And therein I did see him, entity black like licorice cut by the gow; blades in and out…
Passcow did not yowl when he thudded against the black; cold now…
Auto de fe.