Tim Earley

If Your Odor Is Offensive You Are Probably A Wingback Cobbler from Another Era

To deign inside a sortie of bruises. Livery vaunted lip. In the cord pose. In the placement noose.
To creep in the structure of your haberdasher’s reclusion.
We were busy saucing her delicates. We were busy mactating her protrusions.

Inflared dimswitch the wisteria apart.
Your flanking of the character wheel bores even my mother, a rotary witness, her briny
Dress flaring in the nuclear arrays, my pistol is attached to a greater speculative lasso,
Greater Passovers, fly ground down into witness.
In the wing-tomb a blistered dress and upturning sesquant pitch, flounge that happier
Impasse between the ocelot and the oriander between the aphid pitch and the nocular trashes.

I have writ a new storm of halter pattern.

Webcaul vermouth birth strophe entrained actuary
Eyeteeth a given snake at the flea market its storm
Hapdolt gorped one more lip one more breath before his barest silence
Shakeleg redress a certain murder but not the ditch-flowers remade
Monetary chamber a reticulate loosening my humanhord embrace infacient poorly
Trickedout hound ride on popo’s shoulder squawks like frescent parakeet redux
Sex at the mission always causes the fish flutter swimmy tickly breast feeling that taps out a Lordfist in the sky

Please stop your ribcage is now inside my ribcage it gives my brain a funny feeling today

Flayed the sour dreams
Intransigent markings
Mulch signified spring
Rosaceous tropid in bloom

A costumed prig my father’s face
A blasty curphid gone aquiline wind

We got gone could not remember the enblasted times
Four dimly paced mirrucles a tashening lope a time trotted scion apart from stinted forms

The idea of a fish bruted around in my forepaw
It was a silver mystery like that of a glen like that of many machines working in unison
To raise corpses from the timeless river with its stupid piers and discarded ropes
The sun beam down like a torture device and the wolf-clowns come true in fevers

Our arrival tired out the map

Sorry, birds.

Sorry, blessings.




My Fist Is A Variety of Mice Poured Down the Dandershoot

All the crocuses.

Weather shits out a braid of time.

Dead spot in my stoopery leopard cushion.
I configured a little home in blankets and warming thalidomides.

That’s a ratchet ass penis is what misery costs you.

What is the cost of hair?
What is the cost of pants?
What is the cost of electricals?
What is the cost of each cow that tongues its own bell?
What is the cost of adjacent properties?
What is the cost of a seagull?

Pronoun grown acetate in the mist.

Midnights have thrown upon me convergences.

Steep tea in the rectory.

The reliquary will not remember you.

I will be there in a darling.

I will be there without minutes.

I heard noises intended only for trains.

In claw timorous a history of antics. A stitching of markets on a very large topographical map and the red routes between them, dollars like think notes, dollars like skunk notes, dollars thinking freely and of their accords with pulsing material, tanquential astropods. Rusty paid for his life with his left clavicle. All the songs about him have empty middles.


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