A Fool, wreath of barbs, Writing of films' stars, Barns, and what lies beyond; Tools for reaching disembarkments, A cool way to clean her clock, A gun, put into a mouth, Entire crowd in shock; His cigar takes tocks, Ticks boxes and lives onward. He rewrites his ducks: swans, Cooks his brownies blonde, Looks at his frowning fawn, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Like drowning frogs, A fearless John. When he writes of life, It's to a howling mob, Sexy songs, luck gaunt, One of us, One of us, One of us, Eteonicus lives, reeds or not.
Writing one hundred pages, It turns out to be permanent makeup, Not exactly an act of nature, Rather products of one's labor, Tattooed to the skin with lasers. Other people, Other places A number of changes, fables; One's mind, the world adjacent. Fine, just fine, Never find time, Why bother in the prime of life, When eyes stretch beyond the tide.
To claw and claw, Writing of natural law, Barracks and arches, Scientific approaches; To be driven ashore, Hearing of chorus, Fairs and archfiends. Only death can stop me, Friends and colleagues; Stems, large leaves, Cigarettes, coffee, Footsteps and then leaps; See my craft on screen, See their past as I see. Consequence on my freedom, I feel men are not sheep.
Is my life but a minor arc? Mirror dark, a nine of hearts, Why walk into the distant fog, Past miles of silver boxes, Simple props with silver foxes, Waiting for their turn to balk. I could write ironic of a pen who talks, Night-time bombings, a man who moved on, Wildlife watching. 'Will I be fed to dogs' The pen responds: 'Terrified by conflict you write a law, But will the dogs obey? I think not.'
When you touch the water, Do you feel it's wetness? When you make art, do you ask, How far is the sunset? Like a squirrel along the fence, I hope I never dash to the end.
Of dying and fighting, Best saved for last, Apologizing and crying, Inside the eyelids: Kiss my ass, my lover lives. Wind, harvested by mills, Jacks, coveted by Johns, Songs built by peoples, Hymns for the seasons. Rescinded politically, Not knowing what to believe in.
Make a face, disappointed, Hopefully it stays that way, One appreciates a boys wit. What is pain but pain, To call a spade a spade, Our nature trail is grey. They say save whales, Scream of the rape of males, even in the face of change. Change my name, Change my state, Changing shapes on the screen again.
Single planet of written language, Little matters of bigger battles: Mirror dragons, bitter captains, Speaking lingua franca to a pier. 'They see not what is near' Between fits of passion, screams, Film seen backward, guarantees, Hears nothing but laughter.
Some composers write bland forever, Passionate sellers, mechanical components, Bad poem after bad poem; Best service as archers than soldiers, Philanthropists of the moment, Amateur poet of farmers knowledge, Larger wage, cannabis smoker; Boxer of drama, reading poems and novels, Softer and lower, he sees darkness;
By tribal elders, Despite wire fences, Highest pleasure, By mine forever;
Global player who creates the local cable, Writing nomenclatures with known names, Hoping workstations become playstations, Whose drone planes zip along to no shame; Teaching to make rain and thunder, How your shame is the pain of others, Whose praise and worship is nonsense. Space traveler, declares his slave radical: "No place for a sail with no waves, No stone age for a failing sage, Place the stones on his grave, Then walk away." Teaching to take pain asunder, How should I, seek, become a hermit, With my star-ship lacking an AC?
Drinking Bowls and pitchers, like smoking coals and timber; If only bones could lift, Our home, save the children, Even buried having all gold and silver, Can an afterlife supply of groves and vineyards? Old and crippled, mouth of the old man dribbles, His eyes meet to eventually form a river; How can he romance with trombones and singers, When he sees and himself, groans and withers, Lays down again amongst the toads and lizards; Eyes hollow and wrinkled, bathrobe, slippers, Windows, the stones that hit them, now coal, Used to build all the roads and bridges.
I stayed at the Cambridge, Apples on the table, bliss, They can replace it. I am brave and amazing, Plus I stayed at the Cambridge, Framed paintings of swiss, Along with playthings, Replaced daily.
A little boating, hidden motives, Net cast far and wide, rod and line, Bits of fishing where the hook is life, We are the bait and our path decided. A single holding, hot and high, One's Lifetime amidst the roses, A river flowing, ascots and wine, Single toll trip last night, no guilt. No guild and no scrill. No landmarks or sites. Gifts of civil clothing, Met with concerning eyes, In the yards at night, Burning, the whole thing. The inner coding of my heart of little noting, A bit of doting, conflicts of the coal bin, Am I composing, or composting with silicosis, Wasting away my time with simple nothings, Served of cold beer unnoticed with business going.
In defense, elected one, My experiment, my estimates, Defend the world, Descended of. He thinks of them vulgar, His second son, Gordon. Smacked on his buttocks, Told: Invent the world, Which will never come, With medicine life crumbles.
Books opens, pictures, Bulldozer, fixtures, Foot soldier of bitterness, Do good moments wither? Pull over, hood open, Notice you could use a push, Look to the wool-grower, Whose home you turned to dust, Hopeless with his heritage lost. Is a cactus cost-effective? Is an organ, mostly defective, Less than nothing? Ask a cleric, politician or elective, At best, they repeat what they must.
Modern artist, face the mirror, Not closet drama, faceless killers. Lost in waves of wonder, Are we not just slave for silver? Target markets, water watchers, Ask Martin Arnold: Do cranial ridges game the system, Worship quantum like heart of darkness? Bonnet drama, Common knowledge, Copper dollars, Collared scholar, Blame the victim.
Chord dissonant, World lissome, and handsome, Magnificent. Is this it? Chortle ignorant, A turn with the guns, cannons, Munificence. Fishermen old, Where is yours? A thirst of knowledge, fyords and comments. Participant bored, Answers of nonsense, Can a parrot talk, conjugate or long? What color am I? It asks with a song, Replies loathsome, Bandied to a swan. Grey says the voices, Not what you are, But of your choices, Monsieur.