He does not live here but it is the god.
A priest tools in a top his motorbike.
You do not enter.
Us the landscape circles hard abroad,
Sunned, stone. Like calls, too low, to like.
One submachine-gun cleared the Durga Temple.
It is very dark here in this groping forth
Gulp rhubarb for a guilty heart,
Rhubarb for a free, if the world’s sway
Waives customs anywhere that far
Look on, without pure dismay.
Unable to account for itself.
The slave-girl folded her fan & turned on my air-condtioner.
The lemonade-machine made lemonade.
I made love, lolled,
My roundel lowered. I ache less. I purr.
Â€”Mr Bones, you too advancer with your song,
Muching of which are wrong.