All the omniscient ones

take a bath together

and feed themselves with

grapes that tickle, they

scratch themselves

with secretions of moonish milk

and sing a song together, blazing

purple all the while:

[this is the song they sing, sometimes:]

A la la ho! Come to me baby:

burn your frigid concepts in a single

stricken match; make that match a

batch and catch the silver dress — let me

bless your latch; if you twirl your foot in

a circle it will love it all the while, a

single drop of moonblood makes the passing

landscape flee; and what you end up

doing with that is surely

up to me

(a me)

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