THE back wash of your
confusion, stains your
sheets at night.
YOU wear your strait
jacket, like a christen,
wearing, the cross.
EVERY one is tinkering
with your mental machinery,
turn it off,
turn it on,
then reassemble the whole
thing again, like a puppet
with a cold.
THE back wash..........
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
MYSTERY LURKS HERE...I LIKE THE IMAGERY GOING ON W/ THE PUPPET & ALL...QUITE ABSTRACT & POSSIBLY A MIGHT O'ER MY ECCENTRICAL SPECTRUM OF SOLUTIONS...DEEP WRITE-10 FOR FINE INNOVATION''''''''FRANK