itburns

Everything's all right; dead eyes see, are not blind. Roses riot everywhere. Sunflowers, Ah! I love you. Abstraction. You think? See rain. Comes afloat. Fell. From storm clouds in the racky north, strifed and blew-melted aslant skies like a warm frost melting in the savage huge infinity over the world and Kansas. Sadness of the soul. Dimness of the inventive heart. I see heaven through everything. Heads bowed on scaffolds. Puddles of mud in Casablanca. Dull movies about Monte Carlo. Unmailed letters (or just envelopes). Baseball moustaches in old poems about home runs;

Lowerin the boom on the bosun;
The lables of unknown whiskies;
Cartoons about jealous wives.
Atlases to hold up shelves.
(Sweet and sour lyrics)
Songs about populated boats singing.
Hello to an old flame.
Putting on your coat at midnight.

Things have a deceiving look of peacefulness, the BEAST is actually ready to leap-lookout-yet what about those French dreams last spring?-what, sweet hype? can't write?-find no machine to relabate your fond furlures; furloors, vleours, or velours, we know that in French, in print a main we cannot fail. Strange places come to occupy this back seat, you mind, in (own) tides. (time?)