the sound is everything truly,
ground-level hobby I was out slumped on the escape
and christ there was wetness everywhere vomit and a broken screen, inside,
and out with it
past the smoke, there was I, and there was
she (in my hand, as well as drink
blue lagoons that sicked sweet
aroma of pork and cove
and with a leap I made off into the autumn air
clutching an image of a Du Fu poem, and in it, writing
"At Aubergine on 50th & being the only chap who didn't speak a lick of Japanese
but once again on the sunny side of the st"
Avenues that miss
her "e's", I, not at ease, never fallen apart much like this, I,
suppose I've grown tired, if anything, she as well, passing
a stained angel of glass to posture
everything I do, I did then, I postured
the island now returns to the sea in sight of the elector
I was a grub sticking out of the bark
and I wanted back!
everything back!
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