Helvetica, as bold as the serifless sea,
indicates a Bauhaus modern madness:
the times end Roman, domains will never remain
and always become, in the middle, remains.
Clementines, crated, and without snakes or Marc Antony
bitter the sweet larder, balancing out the golden beets
and throwing back beyond Ginsburg to shriek
at the injustice of any assertion of absolution's truth.
The modern once again classics in the house of the purple hearth
in which the flames lick the stamps on the letters to the bridges to everywhere;
reclaimed wooden smiles dagger around, looking for a cockatoo-shaped cocktail,
convinced that confinement to a single time would be the greatest insult since spliced red.
Infrareds do not know what they are about, and they moving away from us.
You've heard of a blue shift? Just think of the doppler with light and an
ambulance always on its way. The text has a form and the form is less of a medium
than it is a massage for the temples to the gray doesn't matter.
Roman Ryan 