January 2003 / Volume Four / Issue One
Paul Brown
pregnant adversaries

Is this going to be won of those boring
letters that starts out with promise or pumice,
leads on to lesser things, drains your favorite

cup of nectar of little gods:beer. I fear.
Has the fun gone out of your Mickey Mauser?
Of all the oatmeal-razorback beasts in your
sopho-clitoric anagrams, this is the worst:
eaten in ill-timed fashion, the nucleus of
Nabokov, a young girl in candy floss coat.

Wait! I have another message for you. You
offered to me a spine tingling palmistic
rapport, then cut me to the quick, with your cruel
déétente. As I am a man, it should seem too
simple a message, but please do, let it lie
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