French Pangram

The unstable dark
world of a
metastasized
circle, the ambiguous voice
of a heart
which prefers
dishes of kiwis
in the breeze. The sun is too bright—to a
nocturne
that’s
avowal. If not you, all the time,
then
oleander
and antifreeze. I can eat somebody else’s shit, and quaff
carafes
of lime-green, sodomize
hoosegows until
the warden
pleads. To prove ardor, I leak
the venereal clap of arboreal
bees…maybe I should
douche
with a ton
of pine-
cones until pristine. I pity
the sun—the obsequious
are there
glistening, under-lying it
young. To emit
taciturn
vapors, ‘the grey
windowpanes’ of bank-robbers and
rapists, O brethren
with whom I have
hung, twilight
is so confusing. The celestial spectrum is
broad, after all. In
coitus, every ‘ray
of light
wounds me.’