Portraits

I when the spent days begins to frail (whose grave already three or two young stars with spades of silver dig) by beauty i declare to you if what i am at one o’clock to little lips(which have not sinned in whose displeasure lives a kiss) kneeling,your frequent mercy begs, sharply believe me, wholly, well —did (wisely suddenly into a dangerous womb of cringing air) the largest hour push deep his din of wallowing male(shock beyond shock blurted) strokes, vibrant with the purr of echo pouring in a mesh of following tone: did this and this spire strike midnight(and did occur bell beyond fiercely spurting bell a jetted music splashing fresh upon silence)i without fail entered because and was these twin imminent lisping bags of flesh; became eyes moist lithe shuddering big, the luminous laughter,and the legs one,i am this blueeyed Finn emerging from a lovehouse who buttons his coat against the wind II impossibly motivated by midnight the flyspecked abdominous female indubitably tellurian strolls emitting minute grins each an intaglio. Nothing has also carved upon her much too white forehead a pair of eyes which mutter thickly (as one merely terricolous American an instant doubts the authenticity of these antiquities—relaxing hurries elsewhere; to blow incredible wampum III here is little Effie's head whose brains are made of gingerbread when the judgment day comes God will find six crumbs stooping by the coffinlid waiting for something to rise as the other somethings did— you imagine His surprise bellowing through the general noise Where is Effie who was dead? —to God in a tiny voice, i am may the first crumb said where upon its fellow five crumbs chuckled as if they were alive and number two took up the song, might i'm called and did no wrong cried the third crumb,i am should and this is my little sister could with our big brother who is would don't punish us for we were good; and the last crumb with some shame whispered unto God, my name is must and with the others i've been Effie who isn't alive just imagine it I say God amid a monstrous din watch your step and follow me stooping by Effie's little, in (want a match or can you see?) which the six subjunctive crumbs twitch like mutilated thumbs: picture His peering biggest whey coloured face on which a frown puzzles, but I know the way— (nervously Whose eyes approve the blessed while His ears are crammed with the strenous music of the innumerable capering damned) —staring wildly up and down and here we are now judgment day cross the threshold have no dread lift the sheet back in this way. here is little Effie's head whose brains are made of gingerbread