perched high above town with the slag-angel
we're listening to some Charles Ives
        overseeing the sick plies of metropolitan beauty
              caught up in the rigging                           the grief knot
             the search for the grace she has fallen from
we exchange our fears in glances:     blasphemy    clipped plumes     snapped shafts and pinions
all that stuff we never should have done       or dared to dream to do
            she repents the kicks she got in car commercials
            lending wings at parties                  certain film appearances sotto le feste
not surprisingly there is wireless on the cathedral roof        so we Google advice for poets
and get sped to InflatableCrate.org:
                                                                                                          poems should be written only under a waxing moon
if by dividing the last 2 digits of the year by chance    multiplying the result by 11
adding insult to injury   or the day of the month   and subtracting 4
you still don't know if it's safe to make the poem
try counting the veins on the splayed backs of moonlit fig leaves
                                                                                if you turn your poem inside out everyone will think it is a new one
apparently this only works if you use one of the following fonts:
seamless 66     Fay New Roman     recobbled MT     or sheriff sans serif
                                                                                    the artistic mass of a poem is the number of alliteration features
                                                                                                                               times the number of assonance features
                                                                                                            divided by the average number of syllables per line

there is a formula called CritTOOL in Excel which will help you do this: =SUM(PO1.EM14)/Muse
it seems the macro can be downloaded at WWW.Shelley'sConstant.com
                                                            the poem is a spiritual doorway & you fall off the last line straight into heaven
walking the Arcadian girders of the trussless sky   I lost my fucking keys again
                                                                                    poems can extend your penis by at least two inches in six weeks
                                             Edmund Spenser
                                                                       once poems have been defrosted they should on no account be refrozen
redirect to IMDB:   a surprising number of films touch on frozen poetry
plot keywords: fish couplets / poultry in thigh boots / tied to bed of lettuce / beef dripping /
back to front / performing rights / deforming wrongs / codskin notelets / windy bench grapnel
                                                                                             prunings from poems should be recycled within six months
                                                                                                                 & can stop weeds coming up at poetry readings

sponsored link to the Bosch COMBO TWEAK-N-JIGGER: churns out excellent poem compost
and makes everything louder
                               than everything else