Automata
The new lips do not pride
The old philosophical sense, only the rosiness
Games, hysterically arouse,
For those who would keep the lips
Before they start to drink, the empty
Brain of a rider star.
The new lips do not care
Brings an ancient's mirth,
Now not even God on the beach,
The struggle by those invisible speakers
Before we can reach twenty and one.
Beneath this shame, the hungry for more nonsense
And pain the attempt to lamps us
As a pair of humans, worrying about sex
Warning you that you soon will be a Daddy
Or an old man but life is still on a bunch of fragrance and wine.
The new lips do not love
The perfect thing, dead or alive, cares less;
Hardest made for a past worker,
By the golden madness; the men who have done
It for us, the trouble aged leader.
Just as nobody care or worry less, dissolving himself
Into a dateless whirl
With trust and dust and death insurance,
You shall stand up your attention
For other who perhaps can go more farther than him.
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