December 2008
1 post
3 tags
stories of blunderbuss
On backroads in Kansas, past the dark glowworm trails a radish-man lies telling stories of Oz He holds mustard-dipped gravel to tell of the by-ways he spins like a cyclone of locution and bywords moving nothing but lips In the hole where they grew him lay devotions and spirits that fled his corrupt house when Azazel walked in… Now he speaks of the poppies now the burden of sleep and strings...