FushSnow on my poemsFalls around the inkpoolForms letters
Thoughts of a Dying AnalystLow resolution language, high resolution brains.High resolution bandits, low resolution trains.New years' resolution coffee, no-resolution stains.Low dissolution sugarbottom, very high voltage mains.
Especially for youI wish I had time to catch all the raindropsOne of them might be a pearlBut if it was, somebody might get a sorepop in the headAnd that would be on the newsThe little news
FairiesAt bedtimeJessie's mother read to her aboutthe 10,000 year old fairies thatlived secretlyin the hills and the cloudsand lit the wayfor all the lost animalsA long time laterJessie's mother told her that it wasn't realBut she didn't understandShe could still see them outside her windowevery night
I keep secretsWhen you're notaroundI drinkfrom the carton
It's not so badA man wanted to write a poemFirst, he used popular culture and cities and let his word rebelDissatisfied, he sat in his garden; then, a jungleThen Japan, then AfricaHe considered outer spaceHe tried a blazing shower, and sensory deprivationHe tried sleeping, and drinkingThenHe decidedHe prefers to draw pictures
Fun at the BeachI am a craband your feetare justbeggingfor it