Anyway, that’s the pitch. Poemato lets fly. Profanations of our joy. These days we blame the pigocerous for turning the lewd sacred, not that which is, but that which cannot be.

They all say flesh is grass, that it fades like the flower and then comes the mower, but mass mind makes a way in telecom retribed monkey. It’s the difference between the poemato and the nut. They think glands are like walnuts, that Weverboy’s walking around with nuts inside. He get too big we shrink em. Too small we give supplements. Snapdragons and poultry and all that gliding rhythm of periodicity looks like a McDonald, just one pizza and all else a copy and so on with robber plots and toe holds. We whitewash the words and put sun cream on the trunks.

Detasseled poems benefit these thin-skinned heads. That’s why the poemato has changed where it made its vulgar bed. Weep for this poemato cut from air amid the blaze of noon, but there is still a poemato moon. Also there’s chanting now in front of city jail:

“The Bourbons, what did they use for tools, huh, huh, what did they use for tools?” 

It’s a question of physic. 

“How do you know huh?”  

The answer is as problematic as a river of light that flows through every living thing.  

In this context we should add, but it may be obvious, that the Igods had iridescent coats, feathers that would molt from heads and pomegranates that fluttered down at night like wingy batgans and poms. 

“But if that is so obvious why has the garden become extinct?”

Consider this yourselves when you believe what is Newtonicly cast on iPod, living close to the heart that hands made with new powers. 

“Hey baby! Is this a spiritual world?”

It was the one paradise thorn that trapped the man and suspended his license, pecked down beaks in earth and pulled up another poetatum. We would all get vaccinated for it, live happily after, but for the bodies of flesh, the desiccated death and winter of the nonseasonal man. Now you need to get a license to love the poemato, the three-syllable fruit. 

“Where have all the bodies gone?”

These things mattered to the thistle thane, the gray green boundary down which rivers flew to the great hymned being lost.