It is here as nowhere other Wise, one might help but hum and
saw with the orbital mechanics who constructed a panoptical contusion
meant to keep meaning at the edge of existen(chull, by the beastly bay,
the tales made popular, out out out): forgotten poplars are the point of
this I-lism, a heart felt pris'm of choice entry, once again opposed to
where this composes itself of some such free will non sense organ,
fingers and hands play music without score, a game lost prior to the
matches lighter technology, zipped up and down to make hay
for all the horses you once thought prettier than a face looking up
and to the [stage] right, taking care to raise a child up to ignorance,
in the fashion so amply caught-sat by the more brilliant eyes of superfluity.
Roman Ryan 