Amy, Jeffrey and I wrote these last night around 1:00am. We've since distributed them out as holiday gifts.
Last Fall Cantos
As told by: Gregory Bem, Jeffrey Brennan, and Amy Falcone
Originally written in the early hours of December 10, 2007
Fragrant supple banter is draining bereaved
apocalyptic nutrition, spasmodic music
tries and trickles to the holistically condemned.
I.
Swizzle like impossible chairs
Flabbergasted in a rain, slowly
Stringy on the hands of earthworms
II.
Denim cluster abound the thing, a skyward
Mechanism prowling distances,
Lucid in such freedom.
III.
Saucer eyes howl innumerably
Buoyant and fallow dips the gentry
Cracking heels ooze
IV.
Grapples with the wheel, and skin-leather snow while the
Armature widens as the light enters and gravel drags...
Propagandization! booming to a close
V.
The precipice looms while bauble guards these
retentively brandished pork forms, who follow
sustenance in wake of patient passages.
VI.
Panama heaves from behind gripped fingers
Porridge tastes foul and rots, congealing wounds
Bamboozled by propriety, now elongate former woe
VII.
Phalanges thumbing dully dense
Novelettes trickling
Botanical symbols streaked in single file prose
VIII.
Brazen, fingertips streak the strange pose hole,
eradicating us from our token tombs;
we, the buttons, evicted from those pockets.
IX.
Schematic filtration system slightly marred
Cardboard up windows with frail tin panes
Basket maker and bowmen contemplate musings
X.
Fornicating, shivering, stalling
Damselian mason's wife, all floured, enamored--
Juxtaposed with purgatory
XI.
Mezzanine coaxed to crumble
Congeal serrated fingertips and divide
Suspension on tight lines, cuts flesh into bone
XII.
Ah! --! Those catacombs rot beneath
all these melodic and transformitory floorbeams--
some volume we find ourselves above.
XIII.
Pontificate trumpets and buff the maze
Hans Castoprian routine dweller and the coughing
"Envoy: a great messenger of our time, you might say"
XIV.
Cantalopean mounds of fickle hash
Skulk and stalk your dripping filth, dropping ash and thimble
Taiga fauna, spherical visage holding silent vigil aglow
XV.
Until the terminal quake bullies its last laugh and
drowsy, a visceral crowd pours forth that same response--
lumber prepared through the fatalist blaze dying dim.
