Calling all churchen Other Times the Politiks is dawn gen-ghis Sea West seed in the graveyard of his humiliation. Threadbare, if he washes the glasses at the pub he received a free pint before he walked back to his stone cottage in the greenwrought let shrill their tippertoes want him for a desert humdog. Joy and the Ruth Salts in wishes and luck’s fevered all the stumblebums walking home with canes on the cobblestones of a tomb they live in a terrorism of doom that is nocturnal — and the butcher’s wife walked about the town starkers to ease her sins a threat for the throat of us, clothed in vacant sundust, up with the wind, and wickedness, they called it wickedness back them, the daze, and something called the peeler stripped your skin off with the bone bones and archipelagos of Gergorian swill sevenfold and the Holy Sisters are the hills themselves. Rolling down the whirly wheels is Must Be the Hootch. Baptism from the slaughterhouse. A hand covers your whiskey face in Slowly Now the thunder. Vague visibility makes you for a rattlesnake, touring the whorehouses for the shovel and the rake, your big mistake, was the portalvein take on dialytically separated gamebold booters in the blackout.