UNFINISHED Scared Happy People - Work in Progress

w.i.p

Shh. Here that sound?



Don't turn around.

Wait.


We I bet we could steal two, tops.  

Three if we win. 

Plus we'll mother eels with some,
to tuck in the stop gap 
come next eons melt-
just a subtle retirement diet intersticed between the lines to
give the upper guy his taste, undisgraced. 

You know how they garble  eye to eye 
behind the pre -gangrenenous 
fuell cels
gargoyles use for coins
and we for curtians. 

As well we ought,
You and I as well and anyone's
whose coveted then aquaired 
some of the their spotless dusters 
and brisqued off work projects for the jacket's as well as anyones 
admired a snow lined week's wages, 
pocketed past,
fallen up
on a fallow pullman lounged Alpine-

And all so some gargoyles' ganglion coined fuell cells
could get some sunshine. 

Yeesh. 

Here ya go. Happy?




  

      
      UNFINISHED Sacred Happy People - Work in Progress
    




"Inside the storm shrieks its wrath and softly stacks
Vast drifts about their trappers' cabin wracked
By seasons year on year, standing empty till the Fall
When rivers' freeze make roads of ice.

Then men with dogs on sleds with traps
Craft nets that in the middle of the night
Bite or cull white pain severs your one bright 
Trapped tight ripped beserk
By baying snouts you watch so close from fear
Whose signs you know whose scent you taste
Sensing forlorn ghosts rock cold in boarded stacks
Shapes which once were known, were deer, your mate. 


All sold pelts now bootrack season's melts ago
Gone to you
	except
		perhaps on Taiga nights like this remains
		
Future winter's residue of snows felled down
From this air on which the storm resounds
Yielding the churning sheets of wet that roundly swallows 
Forms of mongrel curs tied outside 
By smoky bootclank axe armed ghouls.

They're bound in barrow shrouds now snow compounds on blocking planks.

Snow stops fast the hinges that lid dinning harsh smells, 
But not the issuing combustion smoldering constantly within.



Except, almost, when white out days yield crazy mетель nights
That muffles sound enough you'd think
So sure you'd sensed the night was ripe to skulk and rip
With ragged, scuttled, silent claws, a pair
A pack of two, tsk and tear should senses hit a red alert
Maybe something soft asleep in snow to eat, a morsel snack
Flow as one up boughs, through scrub, to shore and back
Round kits shed past mud rut summer spring's retracted
The current run asunder hence and fore
Cross heavens cruel and neurons vast
The snatch so fast
The ground had teeth
A red that pierced above the shadow's static howling out
Gouged tendon flap, loosed lack's last gasp


the extremity of grief


Carved stark
Too deep for life oh life my love to once more wet and quicken your precious curl
Exhalation from Incarnation 
Rang past spur used, birch barbed, pine,
Taking with it what so sweetly keens to tensen, lengthen, listen,
Poised to spring singing out sinew slung dart guns
Grouse roused just clasped quick in tiny razor teeth 
Cross whose vaulted ceiling's mouth 
The rot and worms have made quick work
Of parts disdained by tongues like yours who liked to lick and clean
The marrow sap of bones and grub 
   delicious.
Exquisite too, fish like snot clots thickly writhing.
The spine snaps after the bristling crunch of bones is already throat rung.
It's best described as itching what's only reached by 
Incessant gnawings on a gizzard
Wandering as all lost pleasures do among the clouds of white noise gnats 
Whose perseverating curtains mark a time of year,
The ebb and flow 
    spawned amongst the most stagnant pools and fetid earth.
I rooted through the trash plants which turn the dog's shit to dirt. 
Like all things in drinking waters shed from storms brewed warm aloft the kazakstani steppes,
On which it's written
	or of perhaps it's said
		the memory a cry entangled in the living vine of generations.
Lines to come:
They lamenting the chasm knowledge wrendt then.
All must live now knowing what what was learned then.

dread. 




the last packets having been packed adroitly albeit rue adenoidally, 
shop voltued past the tempestated servants,
hoisted though windows a few hour's 
caelumynated saphires and ground garlic, starlit,
sprouting  celestial charts  with wee hairs intersecting in the middle of the night

holding shrieking :





  

      
      UNFINISHED Sacred Happy People - Work in Progress
    






































This is a first pretend.
Here is a second line where the word index is.
And a final third line,/, 123 ~ . CLASS class index break me its britney .