Martian Foam Poetry
brashly estimates words as conjunctions with alleys, breathing space,
and particle theory. A particle is essentially a whole. In Martian
Foam Poetry, the beginning of a screed predicts versions of weather
and inclement thought. Martian Foam Poetry reduces twinkle and
inkling in the larger issue of tunesmith, vagary, and constant
pressure from the wheat beers of our time. Martian Foam Poetry all
aghast, strips clean the acting particles and resorts to non-equity
players. This is your poetry, The Martian Foam Poets chuckle. This is
not a carrot.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
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