Genre disguises talent in a pit of Holmes'
snakes, cocaine filling the pit so they might
escape and make mysteries.
Con and foil to become a househeld
to blame for the signs on our times
financial, fit to squint at The City.
Your impulse says a lot about who you
feel under neat surfaces hangs out
the laundry on a string instead of machinery.
Dry the self on cobwebs, where all stuck
creatures wait to die the inevitable
meal for whose mouth you put it all on a fable.
The edge of the certain is entering tamenent,
guiding the reader to digest bac
terially to the mat'.
Roman Ryan 