deal
with
words to deal with words is like to deny what's inside a sphere build entirely of me where there is something without a given name but with a smell rough to touch monkeyasspink and the output echoes from inside my skullbones there are old fridges resting in the grass and strange animals you never see until four in the morning also the bigger ones you never see just smell just guess like the words you say to an anorexia-woman like the words you would say to a preacher like the words you say to a cassier like the words you would say to a man who finally made it make it like up and down the unnecessary path walked by anybody talked to anyone the muscels that hold my neck like wires strings of an ancient stratocaster receiving the flange of an eyemovement the sudden smile the delay of a unwanted smile the reverb of a hand that's too different to touch me and the fire and the fire that keeps them apart talking 'bout words dealing with words talking 'bout words dealing with words seldom touching the grass touching water touching me the green shirt waving in the evening wind the green shirt waving in the glory in the condemness of what could hide fear behind the words fear of judgement fear of never-could-be-the-same after after after it's said after IT is alone and IT can not take it back because somebody is watching and always the day after IT wakes up and knows something like a treason is in the air the crows will all be gone but the one that always stays will watch you will watch you will turn the head and listen to a language that's strange like dealing with words like dealing with words dealing with words. |
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How To Listen To The Music Of Albert Ayler shoot the bear plant this tree drinksmokefuck build that house go up the stairs don't ask questions don't plant this tree build a road build a new road that road we could walk together blow it shoot the bear don't listen to them get crazy get mad kill this bear climb that tree put the sand slowly in their bucket their old things drive hard don't wear pants ride low let you grow this beard blast the road that we together die young and only one time in your life are you allowed to write a poem about the decaying body of Albert Ayler the saxophone player floating down the East River Coughing starts
coughing. |
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