shall i
attempt to describe
what
over-pilled and hanging writers
already
written?
- the filths black animal blanket
that
grips
your reason
away?
no - i
shall describe tuesday when time was still on dry gears,
when my
voice shrank small as a mouse's,
when, too
sane, all faces were intricately lined by artists,
when i
touched the slow lumbering large things all around me
so
conscious of being on the surface of a populated planet,
and i,
too sane,
clearly
knew and felt the earth’s solid girth and soil heft under my feet,
all sky's
painted in
hollywood
watercolours . . .
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