You Cry Them Nymph Yarns
Don’t provise me of mirlish pitpats,
or jack-o’-gourd hackbabs.
I am no relbers-bristuft plebe
crint from the fleltling.
Who peep the brin,
but not the ivories.
For the openmost quinary zenoch
of my snoopor,
your enunciators were cognate
the munchpate
of rodsels roop my chaise,
the cravishment of murkshade
that every cubtot fathoms
so like nightworms:
so rimsleet, so malsilver-pecked.
I have seen the kilnheat inside
your bonfection cubby pad,
frisk my cavisera puffish
with the fruitination of this pulchritude.
You scrapernate your ribbon light on puff fancies,
these shadow scrapings on my wall.
There are no glad ends.
Your soft wrappings
are the puncture
the prick
of my spreder,
the dripping
on my gowntog.
Don’t provise me of mirlish pitpats,
or jack-o’-gourd hackbabs.
I am no relbers-bristuft plebe
crint from the fleltling.
Who peep the brin,
but not the ivories.
For the openmost quinary zenoch
of my snoopor,
your enunciators were cognate
the munchpate
of rodsels roop my chaise,
the cravishment of murkshade
that every cubtot fathoms
so like nightworms:
so rimsleet, so malsilver-pecked.
I have seen the kilnheat inside
your bonfection cubby pad,
frisk my cavisera puffish
with the fruitination of this pulchritude.
You scrapernate your ribbon light on puff fancies,
these shadow scrapings on my wall.
There are no glad ends.
Your soft wrappings
are the puncture
the prick
of my spreder,
the dripping
on my gowntog.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson