But to we who swallow the maddening hairs and are surrounded by
mountains of ice, the letter cries its own throat, its fruit, its
pining. Detect the voluptuous blotched skin, the simple fur, the
jutting curve, the translation of oil and vision. Its fantasy is not
spreading, but bulged. Simple in its midst we must set about
habitually and trace its plastic velvet flesh, its spongy visuals--
camp and pound-like. Its copula crudes the gesture of its plumbing.
Jam tightens the sense of its corruption. The fat tongue, its glottis
is toppling, is moist and verve.
cs