[00:00.093]My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like a monkey on a silver bar
[00:04.134]Big poop hatch with a cotton hatch – hatch-holes that the light shows in and the light shows out
[00:09.322]And the little red fence
[00:11.260]And the wire and the wood
[00:12.337]And the barbs and the berries
[00:14.646]And the tyres and the bottles and the car-upon-rims
[00:17.794]And the heat swims on its fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into gold
[00:24.002]Trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts, its bell was blocking an ant's vision
[00:28.969]And the mice played in its air-holes and valves
[00:33.030]A ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red and blacked its wings and blew off to a flower
[00:39.142]Its hum heard just above the ground
[00:41.993]Black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree that originally held a tree house full of a building with one small window
[00:50.354]Birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper
[00:53.762]"My sun is free from the window," said the god to green dabbers
[00:58.002]Rice wires, mouse tins and milk muffins
[01:00.740]Cereal and stone
[01:02.955]Matches and masks and mace and clubs
[01:06.120]And splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a dust jeweled penlet
[01:11.009]Cobwebs collect down plaster, run into a hole and find collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon midway between telegraph lines
[01:22.441]A silver wing – a cloud – a rumbling of a cloud
[01:25.860]A crowd of various violins strum from next door through my wall into my ear, obviously artificial
[01:32.453]Neighbors laugh through sandwiches
[01:34.931]Harlem babies, their stomachs explode into roars
[01:38.220]Their eyes shiny with starvation
[01:40.527]Speckled hula dance on my phonograph
[01:43.315]My door rattles windy
[01:45.507]Sand wears my rug shoe and taps on the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear
[01:50.933]A typical musician's nest of thoughts filtered through dust speakers
[01:55.121]"Why don't you go home? Oh Blobby, are you great," exclaims two lips in some jumbled rock 'n roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch
[02:06.240]The surface of a friend
[02:07.859]This high book-a-friend laid on me
[02:10.687]On the couch relaxing in the corner behind a still life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads
[02:17.033]Slurred in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by thought
[02:22.520]Strain on the spoon like a wheat check – check Bif – cotton popping out of his sleeve
[02:28.216]Poop hatch open, big poop hatch with a cotton hatch – hatch holes – got to pick up the horns
[02:34.053]But the head won't move until it walks