Transgressing boundaries. An aural experience.

Welcome to the Transphonic Museum of Prose

Your hay it is mow'd

Hearke, hearke, the Larke milky wontons
a little onward lend thy heavenly rod
Look in my face, my name is Destiny
with blackest moss
the Bard and the Scribe
in the gloom of whiteness
skimming lightly
my flower pots are full of soil
and empty of penguins or avocados
of late fled from his natiue place,
Your hay it is mow'd
silent breathers of wisdom won
the cook?
with weary steps I loiter on
Afric, from her remotest wildflower
have always felt that thorny democracy

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