|
zuò qǔ : Dalrymple, Dowers, Drucker. . . |
|
A frozen lake is solved. |
|
By all means. . . |
|
Its The slowing down of your brain |
|
Around that certain sort of math. |
|
The result. . . |
|
Completely destroys the snow globe |
|
Which results in. . . |
|
One calling for an Eyewash and hand replacement |
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
I suppose I' ve been brave |
|
The highly unlikly rock and all its valves |
|
Are roped off. |
|
As is the would find luggage dilemma |
|
Of love and money |
|
I know now the problem |
|
Lies in no one wire of the human heart |
|
No none of its 12 plugs can be pulled |
|
To tear all veins in one fell swoop |
|
Like wall socket roots |
|
Through their smooth calm sheets of plaster skin |
|
And much thinking makes so little of time |
|
And of lives |
|
Whats left are fires beating off of faces |
|
Spreading in the heat left after beards. |
|
The bright red skeleton of a cynic, |
|
And the fine line differences in skin consistancy. |
|
However so slightly permanent |
|
These are the things that will never be songs. . . |
|
Never more wet concrete for song street. . . |
|
This is not more wet concrete for new song street. . . |
|
Not poor silked concrete for beneath lord songs soft feet. . . |
|
Not poor song meat. . . |
|
Not song not more raw wheat. . . |
|
For the poem popes and sing job' s |
|
Mastering the fast mean walks of big show street. . . |
|
Fast |