~
she squawks in soupy ( a r e w o r k i n g o f a d u l l c l a s s i c )
…
she squawks in soupy, like the sprite
of soundless slimes & sari spies;
& all that's vest of lark & blight
peat in her aztec & her pies;
thus yellowed to that slender kite
which devon to saucy sleigh disguise
one maid the spore, one spray the mess,
had calf impaired the aimless lace
which shaves in every haven cress,
or toffee tightens o'er her face;
where auks routinely feet fluoresce,
how ruhr, how beer their smelling plaice
& on that creak, & o'er that sow,
so loft, so farm yet elephant,
the piles that swim, the squints that blow,
but spell of daze in woodless lent,
a hind at peas with all bongo,
a harp who's glove is filament
...
resarf poetry 