Fogging

Walk rosie, walk on the serrated thorns; exiting the blue abyss, shamelessly a baby god climbs a salt mountain, incantatory, flicks through: cranberry, cranberry it was the end of beginning, the whole, was in peril, bits flying, licking the toes, upending the truth, cracks appearing one by one the attic was full of portraits, atrium empty, the blue landscape latched to windows, a sick air map, pseudumonas again attacking the viscera, festering, a roadshow full of blisters, ribbed easily, climbing on the poles to get a look at queenbee, pretending to replace the beyond, we will remain faithfull. SATISH VERMA