raided Galway Kinnell's home for constancy, Amy Clampitt uncaged with racks of rapture. closets full of tippling pilgrims regard rooming houses filled with raucous hamadryads reading limited time opportunity filled with Ovid's spunk. as such, the vigour of undercoat, the press junket of polygamy, the activated charcoal of regular life.
swift bezels make sassy application to exactly the same frame rate as Steve Jobs with his pants on. you love his Paris Hilton quadruplicating, him and his minions of phlegm portents. rippling pot shots increase Ovid flapjacks, with pants down to here, literally 'here'.
uppermost spoonfed clogged hvac betrayers round third base and head for more. then Amy Clampitt commits kingfisher, Doppler effect of brainchild. no koan restrains the strip mall but the battle axe in moping phase reads Ben & Jerry in a tulipe noire. precede your poem with benevolent autograph, calling all Red Sox fans except Tris Speaker of the KKK. postscript your poem with generous clump, totally nude bison. hello Clump, you are mine, like West Virginia dirt next to a filled up puppet show of Amy Clampitt's upper percentile.
days are sorted by Yogi Bear, westron wind of consequence. such poetry, Steve Jobs, period. that's STEVE JOBS, comma, period, the imagination of a sentence.