81 Poop Hatch - 2006 Digital Remaster
Quelle: Spotify
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 tyres and the bottles and the car-upon-rims …
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 filtered 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
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