oh, we don’t
like the word agéd to describe our
dear amateur. “these lousy,
lousy words!” could be made out,
emitted—more like spit out dry—from
a rather feral and
taut-wired (or spit-swept, and not just at the corners) mouth.
here lie the mouths of poetry. this wasn’t spoken but did seem
emcee’d directly into the, the editors don’t think
rotten the most appropriate descriptor,
but as mouths go....
oodles of awful, the non-emcee emcee’d into the dog ears of
our hero:
tethered with countless red paper hearts, that joyless
saint bernard. and tucked like a russian doll into the water-blasted miniature
barrel under its goozle, trapped like a canned tuna, st. v. hisself.
