and. so. i wrote this in
Mitzvah- regarding eight documents from the red corridor
“land to tiller, hope to pilfer,
Your struggle for busts,” Green Hunt
Cantos the Party’s Subpoena into portable iterations for masses, so that they, and we, only in relation to they, might in their amusement arks, built on bubble fiat;
international simulacra spanning slutty as air hostess, traversing in hebetude, the penchants of prostitutes to promiscuity.
Blazoned by our ideologues, they shall surrender, without demonstration, their vaginas, their penises, their penises, their vaginas, their neutered xx. xy. XXYY.XYY.XXX.48, XXXX.49, XXXXX. their audited chromosomes for lysenko, as he wheels their cots into nourishing stoves, pouring them, and this. to mention that we are also in the tub with them, our, their soggy batter molded into insurrectionary great leaps forward
Of charu’s politburo posing under green screen intravenous with the tiger reserve, where she had already succumbed to the prey-of-the-day, to the
bauxite, the ore in the collapsing mines breaking into choirs crooning hey ya, hand me some manganese, some nickel, some Bhattacharjee mouthfucking tribal uncivies; Nandigram intoning Hey Jude to the cover of Ma Mati Manush, and the Neo-Jiangxi Soviet crumbled under in it’s own beat.
P.S. Annie Lebovitz was no were to be seen. and So. the electorate complained about not being able to own land in Srinagar.
the Renault picket groove in iambic pentameter. not really. why would i?
the worker’s were agitating in ways which affronted public decency.
and so our correspondent Leyla Zana filed these couplets channeling interviewees under Article 301 of the penal code:
our pensions bleed for the turkish soil
these unpatriots, in hell, may they boil
indeed, stainless hard work will make joy
for country, for capital won’t remain coy
Standard & Poor’s:
Cotillard, won’t you, oh won’t you, break my picket groove?
watching your efficiency in training, I can only say that you’re truly a force built with the spirit of the War of Liberation,
And this will speak to the love in our hearts, the love, which jostles plate tectonics as if she were fingering herself, her population, her son, her head of IT, her sister, the Berliner, her Russel, her Russel, her Russel, who if his grey matter were not corrosion to major javelins, were he not subterranean indemnities, were he not her mother’s son, were she not a call girl for festoons, like her husband, my father, for the men without tongues to parrot shuvo. shuvo. shuvo. dins, for my Fazila-tunnesa, mother who was so slow to fellatiate father’s lithosphere, so he could not hand the ringer to Jamil, his Shafat Jamil, his Shafiullah, his Osmani, his unamed General who was aware but was not aware, who was elegied but was not elegied, was efegied, but not efigied, and my father’s sons, Huda, and Noor, and Dalim, and Farooq, and Rashid who were in the lavatory, on the roof, the patio, the lake, upstairs to the answering machine, where my father hung up and তাকে রক্ষা কর. and Russel, their brother–the national whipping boy, the 21, the 26, the 16 huddle, point, screenplay that we heard from our verandas: