can't write from a dream from a realm so real
can't drive this truck too high
her head reaches the sky she strokes the cow
her skin so soft so warm she meets her eye
and he offers her chocolates she will keep for later
with milk and honey maybe and dates of sweet surrender
see her shadow sliding over hedges across meadows
and crows on a wall breaking no jaw
in between wake and sleep
what seeps what slips into dream or real
can't find the beginning must wait
for the stranger at the gates
bare innocent intent at mountain top
bearing such love as scratches streams
and brings back the vanishing scent
of pictureless scenes
what thinks and sinks into death or dream
dishevelled air and words as tenuous
as spider's gleams
YOU ARE READING
trips
Poetrytalking about trips don't trip don't move don't groove sitting in street poverty such cross nailing you down in the tomb of lost paradise eating at your brain your eyes your infinite holes piercing the guts of well-fed bourgeoisie never gave you...
