Saturday, September 17, 2011


The purpose of this song is to be placed in a file. It has to be -- to be sound. The contents of this song have been made unavailable. Words find their way into its cipher, & leave as names -- no men. To be sound as names, they may be questioned & remembered again.

I speak not of any -glish, but a Day. A day in which the names among you shall gather, like an itch upon your throats. All clots & glots a-sing.

I speak of an Eng. Pardon, an End; time's rhyme with the Begin--

I speak of Angels, men, & the unbecoming way they, who speak solely in names, address us, the purposed nothing.