The Remains of Day playing Tartaglia Teratos made a green youth in the urn whose grylliat was butler to the island's only hearth, a bone for summer's swoon, which as a machine, gave birth to logical flowers, gave botany to a choir whose inflatable antlers lifted them high into the red interior of a hall, which like a walking egg, would look over its shoulder into the oval of a Strauss Waltz wit-maned in bag-piped figs, whose loving and seedless aqua rose from a silt of frames to gift a key-hole to an imprisoned spider, lucky, lucky little china-box, whose borderlands are crazed with resorts seen emptying their ferris wheels of improper Herculeses into a captive garden in the form of a Pegasus, which though flat, is eternally leaping skyward, and eternally pointless, though miraculous with edges, whose fictions befriend an old dowser, who, glabrous with delight, is half submerged in a bauble's absent bowler, a house-coat of rhinoceros hornbills dappled with muddy Lazarus, whose foulest mood is constant, but which represents an innocence unrivalled by any hatchling not tutored by the imaginations of geoponic black:
"You know when the light is just right, you can just see Oannes in Anthony Hopkins' eyes.."
