Entry no. 7

Well, I wanted to avoid posting actual new poems on this blug blug, but this one is way too fresh, and since it's in prose I can't resist. Without further a do-do, "Entry no. 7"

Back in minder-guckel times the tiefel kncucker would watch the gunt gekochers do their koch smeltzing from dawn until dusk; and despairing over a blue-eyed hoffstalt samlung, he would often cry until he was so dehydrated he could cry no more. Grunt fals im kip geschatt, he could often be heard moaning at the mich dendringer, but little would prevail him, and so the moment finally came round when his tears swept over the wind-blown plain of his heart and he concluded, “gefurhts mich ablesingen, kann blutt ne mal kanblutten!” And that was how he overcame his loneliness and woe, but I have employed a quite different strategy. Purveiwing the woeblown recesses, I have decided to to tread down an altogether different path. The radegeschimmels and the milchdortdrubens of the world are not for me. When a cloud of loneliness sets upon my breast I turn the gaze of my breast upon the rubazzo e pantos and the iglios des cambruzzios. Weltsammung is not for me. I have had enough weltsammung for a day, thank you; and so, if you see me on the parkway or upon the furmgesicht with a rich blue tear in my eye, put your handkercheif away because pity is no comrade of mine. I am strolling down the spina with my dadleo con dillo and my heart is richer on the inside for it. I have found the woman that the gypsies foretold and our uk fuk al badem is lined with phosphorescent blooms.