an array deedie

The desert's son crosses hexes and hindsights from wintery gapes and ringing. There's a toast here: not one to you or the great heralds; neither scope nor speak-wells and umbrage tempers. An east, almost. On airfold wires and 'ploding texan-- cresses, a bit maybe piteously, but tender to the mule and crash hatching mewl of dead earth entry. Responses are all a toss, at least in the treasury and redemption cans clangor-- all that slow scar reddening ye rest-able, scorning the ones who sit too much. The inquiry tests the answer-dumb: telling travails of who and who, all those important people to whom the letters once held a stoic regard. Seems now the whole ploy is on a funeral dirge, coughing banter and in a dinge of tin alloy, elegantly numb from the nape to the scrotum, covered in cow, and braying to the wrists.



(eyes used for tooth support)