~

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 .