Bài hát '81' Poop Hatch Báo Lỗi

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