I woke to see disoriented infinite shelves,
Enormous books lay with utmost silence.
In the floating dust, identity was found,
And under the endless meanings, the self was buried.
The turning pages reminded me of the unremembered hands,
Meanings were blurred, voices were invalidated.
Every dawn made me welcome to enjoy the curse,
For time had lost its aim.
Sometimes I met sufferers, while others were not counted,
Their tired eyes seemed to be of the weariness of traveling to eternity.
Voices filled with vain efforts, unable to be comprehended,
Since the mind was stuck in endless letters and pauses.
I understood that hell is not about fire or pain,
Though punishment was given through endless reading or searching.
I looked for a respite but was forever denied,
When properly ordered, souls drift astray forever.
I have a bowl for a head
I have a bowl for a head
Hollowed out for flowers
You'd think I'd be dead
I hold my soul in a lotus
My soul is in a lotus
My soul is a redhead
As you already noticed.
In this rhyming epistle
I've got ivy and thistle
Hear a tune that I whistle
To my stamen and my pistil.
Butterflies are my persons
We set out on excursions
Such pleasant exertions
Cuz my head is a bowl.
Rider on the storm
Rider on the storm
I want to eat a worm
I want to eat a worm
I want to be the germ
Infecting your epiderm
Rider on the storm.
There is no point in reading this
Unless you’re willing to read it again.
Looking over your own two shoulders,
Pointing out the good words.
Shaking your head above the bad.
Scrutinize your own attention span, in time, in time, in time
To the primal rhythm of your breathing.
Are you even sure of what you are reading anymore?
Who’s words are these by now?
There are no more questions waiting to be asked.
Are you wearing monkey pants?
So am I! So am I!
We should all wear monkey pants
Till we die. Till we die.
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