Raktan walks down the street with his handly pocketed pants on and wanders lusting for rimshots of snapper snares

where he walks no one smells his hands or his socklessness

wrapping paper blows by

stalwart experts seem to have a grasp of the situation

reading bookish tomes of erectifying lecterned credo

Camto sees his lustfulness

and comments Raktan

has a certain “ness”ness to his carried luggage of a walking gait

snapping at the rippled waves of negrilled nighteous narcoses arising all around him

decepticons of snow-laden reams of opinion

he covers his ears and eyes and his nostrils with the fingers of both his glovenlies

whispering

to no one in particular

far goes the capital

of no

south