An Altered Poem by Beazley and an Altered Poem by Me.

Our Coats' Liquid Treasure


Sleep this, nestled map, and see but never fill in Phiz (viz: huns),

ready to wot glassed-up vids to melt the wake.



Dead walk amongst us, shopping.

Rousseau's doorman, the big dog, ready to

have toys in this forest dividing the stream, our coats’ liquid treasure.



The multiple.

The multiple.

The fungicides correct spelling.



But back to back to

taken twine for noon wings in hiding.



Piss a piano lapping gravy in gravy bathing in that spill.

***

We Found Liquid in Our Copra

Fizz was the hardest part of the map to fill.
Being eight and shoving rock candy down the hatch.
If you glass-up the gulls you'll melt them all down.
Each person has a hero and my boss ain't it.

Waldo and Arthur. Patrick White cutting up skins.

The candy was sticky, like hellspawn liquid breath.
Listen buddy, I said, I can't afford another bird wake.

Silence really inutterable and muted. Giant mutation.
Fungicides to keep the feet dry, as they say.
It was far too easy to accompany Rousseau on the run.
He pushed the shopping cart; I inspected the coupons.

SHOP RITE. WHOLE FOOD. TRADER JOE.

Everywhere dead produce. Lines of people.
People bathing in smelly dollars and dead veg (sluicing begins)

A cough runs blisters miles long down a throat.
Remember when Dante fellatioed the dog?

LIBERATE WOMAN.

"I don't care how pure she is, she's still a sex object."
Beatrice smelled like old cigarettes, eyes white space.
Dante, snifter in hand, drifted in and out of the new purgatory.

Who do we end up in America?

What if Verg (stop sluice) made the whole thing up?
But Dante is gone now, Ugolino's bait. Multiple brain gnaws.
Grizzly gravy iced over providing extra crunch.

If you piss on the piano, are you tuning it?