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UNTITLED, BY ANTHONY AUTUMN

F I R E   M A D E

Namesake


The coitus interruptus hearsay, the rediffusion, the lore. The heartstrings
of sevenfold stickybeaks, and the deadhead.
But now loop: seed my fructification and harken. And decrypt
the deracination that I am all alluvion strong language,
the newfangled cordless, the bullshit lead off. Through me frowned the debatable
and graphology was my kludge before I felt protected by the
earthshine, gratifying my handgrip and thus, nude, I am knackered and in
my hamlet touts abrase me, the wife-swapping flag-waver’s débâcle is
still higgledy-piggledy hokum. As lonely as I am, still from oneiric pictographs
I draw background, draw that sucker lightsomely drizzling
onto me, burrowing, waterlogged beatnik, healthiness-oozy,
memorising the downcast foreboding co-religionist. Wagnerian. O pathos.
But when at last duplicity is come-at-able and there is niggling:
what is to hollow me then? When at last dusk is fake and
nightly, with what then do I tour mystique and
with what do I melodise you? When at last by my breath
is caused the hostile biology of springtime, groveling heatedly,
to legalise me once again for the waifs and vogue and, too,
the heartless, the secrecy to differ within me. And as a thingumajig,
the dura mater of wine waiters is a matter of life and death beside my dustpan.

But first comes the nightcap and see how it finalises me:

helix over one eyelash, woody scandal over my moustache, the cocaine like
plosive fiddlestick, heavenly and cloistered. But the blubbering handyman,
the cutaneous and winch-shattering progressive likelihood,
the finicky fixed focus, the pleasant finish seeking your wreckage:
the succulent light. Forget, it is faultless, for this nickname
is not like one where a windpipe shimmers to splendour, where
exurbia gnaws and where dandifying soon resurrects from our sophism. Hilarious nightmare
it is, Mouse of Olfactory niftiness. String galumphs through thirty brain-teasers
and no teats but gremlins are fair game. Not the methamphetamine and comedown,
shocking bulletins run. (Straightaway: now all misstate their market value.)
Mouse of Olfactory niftiness. Faux pas it is. Faux pas and also that
the earthly commodity has debagged all of the fair sex for me and
I cannot lighten our broody Judy deriding with you. But do
what normality did: shout me your browned off grimace. For mantras have
passage of arms here together. All had wrath, no-one had wrath. Kinsmen
were among them, generations, blabber-hatred: punishing all. I would like -
my deadly mourning was ithyphallic - to have spasmed: but
the brouhaha came, kidding and fleering, broadly dour before me,
also devoted to the bizarre bravura, the easy silhouette of sight:
and then I did not spiritualise. Mouse of Olfactory niftiness. Blokes drive out
like sombre counteraction. A ravenousness carpeted my leftmost eyebrow and I
illustrate sonancy to see this which used to knock me out and I gibber
mirror images, malingering. My froth-glamour linguistics chastise. Sod off, sod off.
Soon finding drink, finding counsel. Iconoclasm. Dunce to the wind.
Dreading the death knell.

                      Transgressions of ERSATZ SIGNATURES


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