As the hair of a continent tickles the nostril of a crow
philosophy sneezes
radiators get ready for the Marathon
to get closer to the fossils of neurological shifts
in the foggy arctics of the volumes of the Highway Code
and the imagination of colourful planets in the painting of infantile roads . . .
Now I am getting closer to Earth
A mummy from an expensive museum
is appointed as the UN Secretary General
America wins the Indian presidential elections
And Bill Clinton Iran's beauty queen of the year!
Women spit in the paddy fields
so they won't be got at for their body odour
I experience joy in the manner of clouds and contented creatures
Joy takes me away
to the march of trees along the gutter
the ferrous conversion of oxygen
in the peering of progressive poets
and ozone's chemical reactions
to the encroaching movement of the sociality of cockroaches
The sky which is the utmost disinfection of brown
from behind the delight before my eyes . . .
And the cotton-wool of my brains
that under the magnifying glass in sunshine
catches fire!
Put a piece of sugar in my mouth
and in gypsy clothes kidnap me to a tent
lead me to a corner
where you can divvy up the weight of your poppycock with me
And under your teeth I would give birth to a child
so at some point the canvas roof would collapse on him
a point hewn with my last delight when I spit at the sun
so it won't grab my son
The day when fire gallops forth in its name
and the earth is no longer a place for galloping
...
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