The First Line Finds the Last

Ancient scribes scratch their quills to a perfectly illiterate God; so the words sometimes get ugly. I plug-in my neuronal soul try to say something not yet uttered, not a scrambled re-hash, from a dyslexic troubadour or blind hurdy-gurdy man. Let those ten hundred monkeys loose, for in time they may find a meaning; the trunks of wise elephants just may paint the perfectly mathematical score of a Bach fugue.. A virgin/whore dwells in the keyboard her creamy petticoat is spotted with blood and jism, yet sometimes she will write sublime poetry a thing both ugly and beautiful for a wordless God.