Clear as tasteless water drained of taps of clouds
by silver faucets declosed,
sheets as shields render deafmute recognizance of all directionless
darts demeaning bold
verbiage the progenic spewthrift foul of dying souls.
The deathknell of all slander mock-histrionic yet untold
by plethoric workaholic aholike micey eel defined as snakey itty bits of worm for bait and switch their oddball subterrainic lives in brainrancit pits unnerved like a Gösta sinfonia lento libretto if only were sung by Ebba Lindqvist herself
alone “det enda”–“the one, the only one,” the only hapless lacking,
for nothing
remains in that proud pacifist land of springtide ice but good will suffice til all is still, unlacking….
