| FOOTSTOOL | STOOLFOOT |
|---|---|
| When we were apes, long into the night, we wore our bonnets bountifully and scraped our knuckles along the floor. All this we learn in the mouth of flight. Clockwork is dangerous business: clocks have hands and teeth. In the garden, our waiting fissured and become geological; only the rarest wise man loves his kidneys enough. Ask the serpent what he misses most: it will not be his feet. Possession hilches, silently, before hissing. Children serve tea at intermission; their tarts they hoard themselves. They have no faces, but no one does at the beginning. Greed will be their first taste of love. He has a hat for all occasions, suits to fit his moods; on rainy days he spit shines his slickers and thrashes his limbs with a lint brush. We leave our muck on welcome mats; we are a gracious species with harmony on our soles. Beneath the table, the bonnet fondled the ankles of our guests; conversation, thus, took a turn toward the local inflation tax. Dangerous ants know no temperance; what remains of them, after feeding time, is a set of finely worn mandibles; and for this art, the giants sacrifice their ankles. One cannot kiss the mouth of a singing woman, nor the ass of an honest man. The woman’s hair is not as dangerous as an angel’s wing. The third breast is more than ample. The return of the skipping bonnet left us all reaching for our knees. Blood tastes of copper, tastes of rust: we return to her and cannot quench our thirst. After we toss the dry husks of vomit; thus, we cannot stop this incessant birth of galaxies. How natural a flower pot looks on a wooden table; our ancestor’s have all appeared well suited for their pine boxes. Gargoyles land and perch, to keep from cracking the eggshell. The largest obstacle within the labyrinth is that we rarely mount light switches on stairs. Crucifixion cannot pay well enough; how much does one make minting money? | In the garden, our waiting fissured and became geological. After we toss the dry husks of our selves on the embers of a slow dying fire, mammals eat the ashes and vomit; thus, we cannot stop the incessant birth of galaxies. The return of the skipping bonnet left us all reaching for our knees. Only the rarest wise man loves his kidneys enough. Possession hilches, silently, before hissing. The largest obstacle within the labyrinth is that we rarely mount light switches on stairs. For lack of an open door, we spent an Ice Age walking into walls. We leave our muck on welcome mats; we are a gracious species with harmony on our soles. Children serve tea at intermission; their tarts they hoard for themselves. Though a gullet full of urine is better that dehydration, sleep is no reason for panic. Blood tastes of copper, tastes of rust: we return to her and cannot quench our thirst. How natural a flower pot looks on a wooden table; our ancestor’s have all appeared well suited for their pine boxes. They have no faces, but no one does at the beginning. When we are apes, long into the night, we wore our bonnets bountifully and scraped our knuckles along the floor. The third breast is more than ample. The second return of the skipping bonnet led strangers into discussions of wrist circumference and pupil depth. Dangerous ants know no temperance; what remains of them, after feeding time, is a set of finely worn mandibles; and for this art, the giants sacrifice their ankles. Ask the serpent what he misses most: it will not be his feet. He has a hat for all occasions, suits to fit his moods; on rainy days he spit shines his slickers and thrashes his limbs with a lint brush. All this we learn in the mouth of flight. When it rains, the sky turns yellow, and that is not a matter for teary eyes. Clockwork is dangerous business: clocks have hands and teeth. Beneath the table, the bonnet fondled the ankles of the guests; conversation, thus, took a turn toward the local inflation of excise tax. Greed will be their first taste of love. Gargoyles land and perch, to keep the crackling the eggshell. The woman’s hair is not as dangerous as an angel’s wing. One cannot kiss the mouth of a singing woman, nor the ass of an honest man. Crucifixion cannot pay well enough; how much does one make minting money. |