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 tires and the bottles and the caruponrims ?
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 filter 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 walks
Writer(s): Don Glen Van Vliet
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