My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like
A monkey on a silver bar …
Big poop hatch with a cotton hatch â€" 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 â€" a cloud â€" 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 â€" 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 â€" check Bif
â€" cotton popping out of his sleeve …
Poop hatch open â€" big poop hatch with a cotton hatch
â€" hatch holes â€" got to pick up the horns …
But the head won't move until it walks