My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like a monkey on a silver bar … big poop hatch with a cotton hatch – hatch-holes that the light shows in and the light shows out … and the little red fence … and the wire and the wood … and the barbs and the berries … and the tyres and the bottles and the car-upon-rims … and the heat swims on its fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into gold … trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts, its bell was blocking an ant’s vision … and the mice played in its air-holes and valves … a ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red and blacked its wings and blew off to a flower … its hum heard just above the ground … black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree that originally held a tree house full of a building with one small window … birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper … "My sun is free from the window," said the god the green dabbers … rice wires mouse tins and milk muffins … cereal and stone … matches and masks and mace and clubs … and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a dust jeweled penlet … cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and find collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon midway between telegraph lines … a silver wing – a cloud – a rumbling of a cloud … a crowd of various violins strum from next door through my wall into my ear obviously artificial … neighbors laugh through sandwiches … Harlem babies, their stomachs explode into roars … their eyes shiny with starvation … spreckled hula dance on my phonograph … my door rattles windy … sand wears my rug shoe and taps on the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear … a typical musician’s nest of thoughts filtered through dust speakers … "Why don’t you go home? Oh Blobby, are you great," exclaims two lips in some jumbled rock ‘n’ roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch … the surface of a friend … this high book-a-friend laid on me … on the couch relaxing in the corner behind a still life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads slurred in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by thought … strain on the spoon like a wheat check – check Bif – cotton popping out of his sleeve … poop hatch open, big poop hatch with a cotton hatch – hatch holes – got to pick up the horns … but the head won’t move until it walksTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
