You're not old, but you're dull. Both our duties, both are vaudevilles of the (usual) lament. Tents, for one, psychedelic turn-ons, buy me a cluster of bells, by me, I mean make me a cluster of bells, make me into one I mean, boredom is always mutual, let's tell on each other and then run in opposite directions, on the count of, not yet, on the clown tough enough to not send in (what I typically want to know about other people is more or less represented by what I've shown about myself). Yesterday I ripped the velvet off my heart then taped it back on, with magnetic tape and fat paper money. Not jittery but a little liturgical when in comes to hope and plantation millionaires. Not chattering but fastly saying I needed some laborers to cut the cane, now no one starves (cotton comes to Harlem)
Five bars later we are lamenting our own materialism (I find my match in contradiction, light it)
In a vaudeville of the elements we call a flood, all I want from the water is my image, bells tugging at their own drift, like a ferris wheel, like affairs we'll have when we feel like it
