Devoid of pre-construed, post-actualized,transloquated, pertinent and readily available reference materials in fixed literary tangent to this very sentence, a prospectile application of original transencryptions, within the pseudo-reality that fomatics employ, is embarked upon in a quest to create a reasonable factsimile to an exact duplication of something totally otherwise in the same way (where only one is directly adjacent to the other) that previous endeavors have set to view, such that you now, herewith conceive to unravel this sentient sentence into a compendium of parameters that seem intensely crafted within communication’s own cohesive structure, word by word, line by line, until the entire seam of intent is discerned to be mined into comprehension, like digging into a panned cake of soapdish opinion asking you to wash closely for what lathers up next, ready and waiting in the queue ambling forward toward attention in the rinsing of your busy mind. It’s not what it says, it’s what it does.
But the poem comes first:
Off the chimney swept edges of poetry,
Aligned with the rooftopped silhouette horizon
Held in the dancing moonlight of late night imagery,
The Last of the Red Hot Camels takes the stage
And tangos his way into your dreams
Above the cities of your eyes…