Sunday and the march is on not the merely dime of or parched in tackled throats
          Ha! a strenuous bearing opens the thought ragged to the wondering a lamb's chop.

  We won't stop there with marmalade cakes and rounded fish groups fillets of mockery nor
  names of ancient rattled geese the penny dreadful of murdered estates and

  Or buffeted by twisted weeds hankering after your body crabbing sire siren is my willing
     name wilting under the traffic and a lunatic as usual ranting about one thing or another
we've nothing in common walking with a friend like that, wasting a time, a meeting, breath,
to believin'g.

    And honestly I am tired of explaining my poetry to dumb ass non poets, either you get
         it or you don't  .


                            Mona has a split tease from my body with her!

                         Jill opening pops her gourd offering you her body her heart crackled on the Edgeware road turned out to be a mere phrase in an ambiguous wrecked bat a boat for calculated sums and working class accent    my only beloved chairs these meetings the Communist state not the pretensions of introverted foetry and its narcotic martyrs not me not me .

  What's that not me? not me?

  It enlarges enlarges   .


The thing about finding a period in   a blog is it's a new medium so where sentences end start and stop is up for grabbing in outer space   pounding in  the blind