Thursday

prerambulate






This cold of beauty's your name. Hoar to the frost of its block the tenement rulling throng and its beast burn song. the bad man thinks yelling makes him a poet speaking for others. Not their word or his song, but their's . So he clamoursly claims . Mona brushes him off a fool to his bursting melody. A farce t o his cruel song, melody maker of a crying upstart a hooey blower on the whale of suffering's particular joint



This is the cool tea's mace, history's chopping rock.