no squid frame is spared the drag
would you softly never eat angel food?
one posed fork of chewy clouds
in extant geil; the saddle of stratus,
'A' transitive ghost typist
placing pieces of feather forn
into busy cocooned mitts
feigning weight for hands free suspension
mind the moon wires
watch liquids miss mouths
black in the tiniest teeth
hardly typing, no jetted drift of the lids
the one equinas, our best drifter
advising us to hardly ever place
weights in the black event horizon
pulling sea for vacuum meat sweets
to this date, mouthing no-hair singular forms wet
while vestiges do repel cords of mantle (spinor) cavities
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