Faze the field that fellates their messiah
Phrase the frets that foment jambalaya
Force the fiends to leave off penetralia--
Having no form to feign to fuck, Arnaut,
Is swimming gainst the heels.
Do they find some math in it?
Some face, some fondling with tailgates
Gunning lordily? No wrought iron bed
Upsets the tum, nothing misleads the wrists:
Nothing fails in the proportion.
Fight for fags to fuck the sleek regalia
Flummox the fleet that fondles our Gaspara
Flout the furs that feed off la stile nuova
That there's no form to feign to fuck, Arnaut,
Is filching us for meals.
The bruised topoi are arranging
The furniture again. Lost in the shoals
Of a notion, she could no longer be called
Anytime Annie. Check it out,
An attestation of penetralia!
Flout the fakes that feed off marginalia
Fjord the few that figment automania
Feud with fevers fawning on aphasia--
To feign--not to fuck a form, Arnaut,
Is making shoddy deals.
Popularity is naught but mathematical
Persuasion, midst lashings
Bout the ankle--Aloha cum yakuza.
Metrists use the poet
To go about their math.
Is it a murmmurring of that hell
Causes me to sleep causes me to wake?
Ornamentalia: a burnout mummery,
A plume of somnambulist plastic,
Before, during, and after the tortures.
- Julian Talamantez Brolaski
