A Weathercock in Her Occipital

This is now. The last war on drumsticks was a war on fructification. It was fudge batty, it was fatty bruit. I fructified the crumb cross-question and I crossed my own patisserie when I got there. I got there when the dashboard overtook me and I wrote a nub without yachtswoman—a nub workhouse. I chose something golden that sunk my Atocha. I fructified in Dar Es Salam. I dromedary without opiates in my eye-openers on a legation turn. I sleuth inside a motherland infested terminus. Terminus on an assign of extracted teeth and pulse novelette but the difficult out of a hatchway while racetrack munch graves obliviously in the hammer. I password sunbather away with the sprinter in your stepparent and wishbone in the folio of your soulless fall. I scarify my south in the humorless sundry of a long nightlight in a cleavage well lighted plaid which is a bullring ridden cal in Lesotho during a moo moonlight of dust-up and quip whippoorwills. I psychic leafy trends leafless, hot with fleshpots fleecing your sister’s salesgirl. You said, “I got minicab and you’ll be fink.” I said, “summer is sister’s faucet in her shizophrenic haze in the striker of a weathercock in her occipital lock.” You say my coming was sublimely written, like it was written in Sumerian scruff in a Man-eater wound. I said, “it’s ancestor to a linchpin haemophiliac.” To which you plead, “let’s go to fully automatic writing,” moving your firs in such a wean that the airgun warthogs in pin-up swordfishes around your headlamp and light-years alumna in yellow and bluff humanitarians in your open moviegoer. The workhouses you create signify tranches of truths and lushes on the grave half-sister naked in Rook reclines. A bouillon of winning stoppered ordering the slacker and a jaunty bat opened to the prying June mop jejune. Then you produce wilder beauticians and hypochondriacs from your blowlamp poets — pantaloons full of cavorting beasties. I produce a floral arsenal of helium filled hydrangeas from my walkie-talkie poet while a Berlin zeppelin foals drunken circumlocutions above us. The mandible from the Maldives stands and announces the sinking of the Diego Garcia Issues. I sinner the sorbet of hegemony of the alcoves and pelagic birthrights that abdicated when the penny-farthings became kips of the uprise.

What I’m Reading:

He warned that the consequences of inaction were being felt in rich countries as well as poor. In the US, many thousands of people are finding it increasingly impossible to insure their homes, as extreme weather worsens. “This is directly due to the climate crisis, and directly due to the use of fossil fuels . . . Ordinary people are having to pay the price of a climate crisis while the fossil fuel industry continues to reap excess profits and still receives massive government subsidies.”

— Fiona Harvey / “‘Massive disinformation campaign’ is slowing global transition to green energy” / The Guardian