Hereafter Do Away With Soft Our Dreadful Fills

[jeff harrison]

bread is artificial, beef natural - unless bread tumbles 
from the heavens into hands aloft held by fashioned meat, 
then bread's as soon a harp in the hand of that meat- & hair- 
sprinkled gentleman, Chimaeras Verser, by night sky his 
eye can spot only giants whom he believes are hospitable 
to such intonations as "what down your throats pour once 
fluttered, or crawled" or "consult the blood, Wished Alikes!", 
else beneath that night sky he'd play, amidst Towers (Yeats, 
Crane, &c), filthy music ("Were My Head Perched 'Pon A Lighter 
Neck My Mouth, Virginia, Could Drop Bread From Far Above 
Into My Hands And Yours, Inscription Whom The Ages Storm") 

		
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