All the omniscient ones
take a bath together
and feed themselves with
grapes that tickle, they
scratch themselves
with secretions of moonish milk
and sing a song together, blazing
purple all the while:
[this is the song they sing, sometimes:]
A la la ho! Come to me baby:
burn your frigid concepts in a single
stricken match; make that match a
batch and catch the silver dress — let me
bless your latch; if you twirl your foot in
a circle it will love it all the while, a
single drop of moonblood makes the passing
landscape flee; and what you end up
doing with that is surely
up to me
(a me)
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