the infinite and profane thrones can also be found near darlington and staindrop
where the river tees passes through whorlton where the son of sweyn forkbeard made his great slash into the sauce of the hell-kettles into the yellow blinking sulphur sauce whose coal-skulled chalices drain into the the white doe of rylston whose noise was the noise of The gospel of inhumanity and i am great-full to the shapely meganaut father for pointing this out to me i am great-full to the shapely heaka-broom for sweeping me away into the hell-kettles of darlington where sulphurous skins envelope me where tiny black skulls clutter my mouth and crunch between my ionic barber's teeth (which bun in green throngs) whose noise was the noise of the gospel of inhumanity whose infinite and profane thrones can also be found near Darlington and Staindrop and between no likeness for this too i will tell you the mother is no parent of her child in warlike trim concealed among the forked hills an alarm that for years had been dumb a mucky, mucky whiffling through the tulgey wood and burbled, "we saw spheres, hair, and some other good stuff..."
