Autumn Lightbulder
Nothing like the autumns molds
turns around the mind at folds
A strange feeling of that desired
beats the stickbombs of scaffold aqcuired
Though some snacksy sounds derive
From the plotting pulledout pasts quire
Still I stank the stinning stones of motion
Elements of whipping steels of stolen flips
The birdies catchies of blixes are arosen!
The pointation of this apoetric salvation
is to scum the endless duration
the flight of merciless valchieres of spitfires
plots the astoning sack of sequence
the point of nothing is the essence!
Odd Vidar Bakkejord