(this atch, will forever be)
And up the slope, slept just on the right slope
(it's actually amusing even if the usual neuroticism, seeing sort-o'-vanners
setting up with their silly little under-wheel
wedges, what spanners)
And up beyond the little kissin' gate, an unusually heavenly valley.
(and she really would make some poetical/thoughtful/slightly-revolutionary man
But the hardest thing to get into a nouveau
knockin Pirsig off his EAsy Rider
(why has it gone to double space ?
i din't tell it to get the poignant big 'lacuna' grace
especially when forced to read through my own drivel
realising that the handrwritten poem's already
about 3 pages back - bottom right
wanted it to be Bee prominent a few more nights)
Is the harder work
But with fullest 'zen' it isn't
Day after day
(never at night)
always the same 'purpose', ten long years
Tremendously full, even funny communication
(the butter-sElves often a gigglin' into my ears)
You rev them up theme-wise
they'll even say " how wise"
or something much more statesman.
And then fizzle, not even a "busy a few days, my man"
The zen of ten years, more or less on the same track,
eco/internationalist/egalitarian (= 'mental health'too)
endless dead ends, but thats the true vagabond trick
gives weird dawntime positive "energy" when it should make one sick.
As long as one regularly finds the right atches that are as 'aside' as possible
(this region, it's bizarre,
should be called hunchback, sensitive lands
too terrified to leave it, they just stare at me from their car)
