wITH my face wedged in corner horners,
our house is waking up stares,
stairs? Fair and undeclared.
Flared and blared these neon frames are sewn in feast and lines
so sttep and sleep the membrane,
Sugar-cane Blane is taking down the wall paper
Mashing the yolks!
Holy moley, the mold is mild, quite and filed
into streets and poken tiles
What is the torn, the storm and the sweet unborn
thriving in combs and thrifts of corn
HEns? Drift and shift, the coral mist and morning bliss
Uncovered and blundered by the smoking spliff?
I remember the happy van, trumdling down the slope
cope cope cope the pope is ripping up the hope
Die Die Die of hallway dogs.
Die Die Die the brigade arikans!
Only the riptide can hide the shame, the blame the tame and the dull innnane
Wait! Wait! Wait for states of imitate, fate and slate the stolen poland mare
Mare, to share the bear of hair.