Jennifer Scappettone



If Half-Dead Bob would only end down at Fresh Kills backwardation could be contango
And us could get ohne with tadance. He’s up in Guantanamo, with the hum-ho-ers’ though
Mastering the sacks. Natch. Spooking of nonece the pail is relieved of its lid &
Prizes fly allotting excess to twice exact every charm of askesis back. Remember the
Future one thinks back in the box lusting after yesterday which will be worse; you Rücken and I
              figure aye knowhow
One’s grinddaddy daily dies. As the velleity of the young & ambitious badablings forth da
              fantasies of a candlelit
Gym, another kiss at the turnstile dubbed calle clocks in tautological style. Mallejo finally
              coming across in a fosse
Outskirt weeps, discloseted, would make the phellus go but ain’t ergoic, mouth I miss

              Venice’s eff-you to nature
& its erasure, for ex, but a bleaghtch ain’t one. Her does not sing; her body is a song;
              Wrong; Paris may buy the
Isles of P the perennial protoex but that spectorate woofs her dearth her own, bitchingly
              Dejune. In other wards
Remembers us lately to the matrix dug over our dead body. To the unthawed Weed who
              wrought us this option u like a

Wannawuz Silvia de jure, obscure, in the name of the red, blonde black and blue shellbombs
             Whizz, as-is, hiss is for you.