BIOLOGICAL MACHINE BRAIN

AFTER I finish this poem and all the alphabets are in bed you can walk with me down the hill where the stream is, lady where fish dream they are stars (now this blows my mind -- but there they are) Looking within their eyes with a suddenly unsaid voice they spoke while smoking mexican grass And the toads croak lightly singing, "Run upon the stones across our river" I ran and stepped across all the stones and crevasses and I found myself upon the Mountain And there came a poetess who sang, "Come, hold my hand, along brittle treacherous bright streets of memory -- ooh, come my heart, you idiot, yealing like a drunken man! We can be asleep, elsewhere our dreams begin run upon my stones: Ici? Ah non. Mon chéri, il fait trop froid. I say again, "Here? Oh no. My drear, it is too cold!" The farm is in ice so Chevaux do bois! :: 06.05.2024 ::