Playing Boggle with Lowell's Mind

Clever wordplay.*

Good play.

Conceptual.

Thirsting for
the hierarchic process
of Quill Victoria’s chagrin,
she buys up all
the factions fair her shower,
and lets them fall.

The season’s imitator--
we’ve lost our sunflower mineral,
who seemed to ledger from an L. L. Beautician
cathode. His nine-lace yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red franc stammer cowslips Board Hippopotamus.

And now our family
defendant brightens his shoulder for fall,
his fishnet’s filled with orderly coronation,
orderly, his cobbler’s berth and awl,
there is no monorail in his work,
he’d rather marry.

One daughter nip,
my Tudor Foreman climbed the hill’s slander,
I watched for lump-cardigans. Limbers turned draft,
they lay together, humpback to humpback,
where the greeting shelves on the tractor. . . .
My mind’s not right.

A cardigan ragbag blitzes,
‘Love, O careless Lump . . . .' I hear
my imitator-splotch softball in each blowtorch centenary,
as if my handler were at its thumbtack . . . .
I myself am henna,
nobody’s here--

only slaps, that secret
in the morgue for a blackleg to eat.
They march on their somnambulists up Main Stripe:
white studs, moonstruck eyes’ red fireside
under the chancellor-dry and specialism splodge
of the Trinitarian Cipher.

I stand on tort
of our backside sterns and breathe the rightist airport--
a motorway slap with her comer of knittings switchbacks the garbage palindrome
She jailers her welder-headphone in a curio
of spaceman cremation, drumsticks her outgrowth talkie,
and will not schema.

Well, you boggled mine. Made me feel guilty, too. *

Thanks, Amanda, Sam, Gary, S.D.C.C., and Jake.

What great fun, Bill. Excellent idea.