by Lois Ward
sunk lair soft deep ages, "soil hay
coo coop hay," roil sin mi win dough
the sun cannot cut the face, but the throat is bare
and feels the stroke that splits it wide, Aaaaaaa aaaaaa aa,
pours-out, Icharrus re-defined, re-organized, cleaned like a
skinned rabbit, the carcass unrecognizable as rabbit, all these
fade-o-me-babe-ox-tea-faced spilling eeeee eeeeee ee eeeee
eeeee ee eee eeeee, down the mountain, past gawkers, eyes
shielded from the sun tearing the the the, "the viscera, from
disgust, the raw contents
ISe bt cu ctno fa scfbf
civ uo on ahen I uoleo
hme i rrw ad nuacr
rcaun da wrr fl i emh
oelou l neha no ou vic
fbfcs af ontc uc tb eSI
at the side of the road, filling sunbathers' glasses with
messages...no key, no code to de-code the babble that is
spilling out of the cauterized wound in the throat of the
tower of babble Icharrus winging up
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