Oruga, not nekid, not perfire, not yet, but flaminal dyad and stippled up-knuckling to the whole world girt in a great moss-gandered oak, slipped, sran, scrinkled her dress crost a bruisy blue knees, thought sleep, or not, not sleepery, just nitchy willow me I’m blipping and soft mossy, bricked around in deep and irony at the brawned crustle roots of the sleep, or yawn, three.

Come lisping, off-guarded themself, these elvies, come wrinkling noses locked at crookt elbows, line, rank and down alley rapid as the rook-sooted houses that letsome up to a sky the vast leer of Orleans. It circles. They ask it to river. Willow roping, frown wind from the once merry, some midnight, a warmer treacle shiver and O, thinky, scrinkled if you are, to the words and the hearkening dervish, they learned, tho’ by rote, from the chillern they’d rankled up ages and ages—popricap, crumpledown, whistleful man, made us and shattered, from capricope, ripricot, planned for the worst.

Should she, still not sleepery, Oruga, see tickertape twinings, shaped and upthrushing from the mardiwaste winespill, with sparrowquick twistful, and the music stopped, some gathered ground feather, dust, ribcage and eye-socket of sugary goat, the figurines whisping and caroling, sent her unto upthrough and grievous, she’d sleep, no comprende vous, mind, sight, and touching, th’phemeral linked and muscled recreation of them, pico-piracapa, their shadowied falling before as they near. She’d sleep, shutted down, but she doesn’t and isn’t, casn’t, sleepery, and the seeing ain’t seeing perchoice, but through, unto, the blinding of is.

Picroca, riprorap, the elvies come, nappily, snapping at chewing gum, bits of kid finger, with Oruga rolling, dreamy and fleece-eyed neath tickertaped night.

Line up and march up and quick up the limmie, Joe elvies, up elbows and kneeing, skirt fringe and nostril, where frosty flight fleet footed glass-eyed aground the whole shimmy body, embodied, to shut down, snow, icicling, all of her Oruga immobile, demobilized, deaf frozen and oakum, they open, fingerlick full, knife-snicker sharp, toothsome and festive, first eye-socket, lipsplit, vein throbby pulled twinelike through her, skin peeling, bone crunching, ground down to gelatin, ground down to antispin, luck charm and feather, till nothing but snow, sleety, snizzling, fizzy explosions of opposite meeting remained, remained, a dust of, mote of, midget of what, what once, she, from whence, from whence in the dust formy left-over lavas of her, that souping, spooning, silver spread on the square in the lee shadowed oak, elvies gather up like threshing grain the mardiwaste miracle of, O she had breathed life into him, the man, the giver, the biter bit, backalley, bare and thrusting and unbeknownst to her in her hazy, consummated in a January cold moments ago, now flat and dissolved in the square, torn up, a child, a child, a child, a chillern the elvies claimed from her ruins. 

To him this their chillern newfounded they sang apricot apricot pipricot ripritot riot and riot and run.

No Colony 02 is now for sale!
It features a crazy nice cover and contents (edited in part by Blake Butler) contributed by such Eyeshot contributors as Darby Larson, Bryson Newhart, Aaron Burch, and the Eyeshot editor himself