Poetic Nonsense Stories two

I entered the door I fell through and smacked my head on it twice. "Abuse!" I flayed. I rememeber, sitting in the desk, as the crook-shank blundered on, telling us how to write. It was much the same thing; it hurt. I remember the lobster quadrille, and how the beach played never more and counting all the lines. I remember scribbling, in the dark ararunt night, it still felt like day. I remember verbs, and how they never chombled on, the squirrels playing up the tree. In America they sigh. I walked into a library and said "do you have a book?" Of course they don't. It was not 1974. The beeling money grows.

Beeling: accumulate

Discovery of Luck...

I bathed in the dark, slundering in the night, the melican owl pooled down. A candle launched, a rhythm flowed, the niceing geese welled down. And all along my breast, the water flowed as the ancient moon rellked down. Wondering up lonely, I four a pleasant beast. He quacked and learned while others pled, to find his rank un-core. The lemon dweesed, a module par, a feathered friend remote, the luck of ginned, emphatic win, the mild poulance chance. A feather rested on my brain, the telling see-saw lied, a metal chance of every gun, the railing hap-saws sligned..

Through Hades

I have my head stuck in the future, flaying bits of wine. My tragic earth, the simple soul, aroused the bettinf tune. A lucrid sign, of others gelf, repelled the mallik stew. Wonder is my lined, wonder is my line, the grapes of god arou the sonn, a godly woman sue. Life to me is not fine chance, the petals rimg and flow, earthen chance of others leer, the metals fleem an tarn. I am no future, I am no bowl, the portly romance clings. A monstrous day of others balm, the killing rizum wars. Beneath the tarn, of metick day, the populace of Rome, asids the gold anfuncle win, the railed bean of loan. Lie is not my chance.