Crazy wicked cool George

In the white room there was a black soul, which was nice because the front door was red and it reminded me of cabbage. On the soul sat a limerick whose name was George, and George played bicycles on the hill by the other hill. One day the hill played bicycles on George. George didn't like it.
He then went and told a joke whose name was Henrietta. She said, I know how it feels to be dead. Cos you're making me feel like, I've never been......born?
Yes.
They then became a relationship. They played tandems on the other hill by the hill that was by the other hill where he used to play bicycles. It was big and green and very much more like a hill than the other one.
They went up, and they went down. When they were only half way up, they played tandems. It wasn't anywhere near York.
Latitude.
Geography, said George one day, is like a rock. Rocks are boring.
George was boring too, trying to make a hole in the ground to bury his newly married turnpike, whose name wasn't Jeanette. A simple desultary verbal act of violence in an ever softening helmet.
He buried her. He buried her like a cat buries a squirrel.
He shall burn in hell for what he hath done! He shall burn like the pagan kings of old, the dirty little nostril rubber!
The Henrietta found out. She was absolutely loving it she was! She called him darling, and said, There once was a lady from Peking, who didn't know what she was seeking. So she wasn't called Jeanette, and she chose to forget, the wonderful poems she was speaking.
And that is it, it, itchy, stitchy, clicheeee.
I've never been so happy since I met-you

Etwas

Ich würde, wenn ich könnte, aber ich kann nicht. Wenn ich doch spreche, wie ich kann, dann solltet ihr nicht zuhören. Ich glaube nicht daran, aber ich bin doch nicht sicher, dass ich daran glaube, dass ich nicht daran glaube. Leben ohne ist nicht besser, aber auch nicht schlechter. Ich will was sagen, etwas wichtig, und manchmal fühle ich mich, wie ich kann. Aber was ist es? Weiß nicht.

A Subversive Re-evaluation of a Interplanetary Dog Biscuit Supplier

Pancake. Flan Case. Outer Space. Outer Circle. Angela Merkel. Angels With Dirty Faces. Maces. Races. Basis. Grey. Miss. Bliss. Hiss. His. Hid. Hide. Haydn. Baydn Powell. Tawny Owl. Falling Foul. Sorting Room. Reporting Doom. Flume. Soon. Son of God. Dump of Cod. Kruschev. Canada. Keine Da. Oberlaa. Ob La Di. Im Neuen Jahr. The Time Is Now. Fat Smelly Cow. Ich Loade Down. Horse's Ass. Kids Were Just Crass. Sit On The Grass. Jelly. Brass. Belly. Telly. Gerald. Harry Redknapp. Feet. Beer. Bier. King Lear. Limerick. Brown Stick. Brown Sugar. Lucky Bugger. Pull The Trigger. Bigger. What A Life! Swat. A Strife. This. Makes. Nonsense. Transcendent. Above. Shovel. Mother. Muffel. The Train. Falls Mainly On The Plain. Donaldbain. Thane of Cawdor. Meeting Three Witches. Blasted Heath. Blackheath. Michael. Dance. Franz. Karlheinz Riedle. Riddle. Middle.

And The Rain Came Tumbling Up

Fairy Nuff

I saw a fairy in the hedge, and she was related to Denver, who was a singer. He sang songs.
Oh my word! I know, I know, eye no, you have a taste for fast change. But Denver is stuck where he is. The fairy is more movable. She sings no songs. But sometimes the rabbit is better than the carrot, you know, you know, ewe no?
The heavens will cry over me, said an ugly hog. But let there be doves, gloves and the heavens above. Dinosaurs have hearts, just as the heathens of old had spears and leaves of caucasian ivy. The train is now arriving, tense as it is. It's like a good old time of old, where the ship was still on course and people still believed in romance. Denver sang about romance. He sang songs about romance. But he didn't believe it, so the others didn't either.
It's impossible to exist in a social plain, and in anti-social plain who knows, who knows, hoonos? It may feel more at home, but would have no takers. What a conunununundrum!
The fairy is sweet though. Hope I see her again, Denver is quite tiresome after all.

Nature? Nay Tour? Fate or?

Just let the poet's cry themselves to sleep,
Let the musicians play on their tearful words.
Where the Bible doesn't reach,
and where the deceitful river is not heard.
The boyish bravery of the automatic writing,
that is scribbled on the parasol head;
Or the macho primality of each far sighting,
that just defends what the warlord hadn't said.

In the skies fly the eagles of yesterday's today,
weeping sadly through their feathered frames.
Maybe they will clean their souls on the way,
but never will remember their west leaning names.
The poet named the Earth, and all that flows around,
but he will always be searching, never an end,
because their words are made from old sounds,
that just can't grip the menace of a friend.

Awake, stay awake, I'm leaving this place,
but expect a visit on the third day, because
I can't stay away long, my heart even stays
in this forest, by the kestrel's three week house.

Medicine from rain, water can do the same

Etuaeb ed elosed sius Ej. Iarv tse li Saim. Euqsir nu d port tse Li. Emia t Ej siamaj zevas en souv.

From the Diary of a Magnet

I've been following my attraction, wandering (and wondering) around the marks of the compass. I have been west of south and north of east, but always facing slightly to the left of north. While I was somewhere east of west, I stumbled upon a land because I was looking the wrong way. I had tripped over a tree, and landed in a factory, where Twiggy could have stood on the wall, but didn't. I painted it. I painted Twiggy where she could have stood and I painted Angela Merkel where she couldn't possibly, but did anyway. Everything was facing just left of north, one way or another. There was no rules there except the way to face. It's always ignorant facings that bring this town down! How it came to stay I do not know. The box of colour should have fallen over 13 months before, but it seems to want to stay for more.
There were some stylish kids, and they were rioting in the town of Woninten, painted on the northwest wall. They were rebelling against themselves, as they had become too stylish to be a counter culture. But I gave them the plus and the minus and they then felt liberated.
In Bringmintenner, nobody voted, and everybody spoke in unison. “Unless it's worth co-ordinating a group of speakers for, it's not worth saying,” they all said. They violently rejected Democracy.
Bluehead Ballet was run by Bluehead, and featured, mainly, Ballet. He was a free soul with an opposite attraction. His ladies didn't belong to him, but to each other, united in the aim to serve his Art, since his Expulsion after the trials in Tring, England. They were attractive, without trying to be.
In the distance I could see a castle, in the mountains. It looked like what my factory could be, but wasn't. A piece of the factory ceiling fell to the floor just as I saw.

To the stars or to the bottom of the river.

Sleep lives in the West, with her false easterly wisdom and damp liberty.