"The Icon Am I Burning."
"I'm doing this twice, the couple.
And in the couple, there are two couples, the neg and the pos.
There are two pretty babies, the ménage a trois young blonde,
and the baby who is better, who gets better every day.
There are two couples.
One's tyrannical, and one is healthy.
Why always two minds?
Design minds factory, or is it of a factorial cosmos?
Cosmos daisy.
The virgin reason hasn't appeared here for a while,
and I haven't found the quartz whale.
I haven't found myself since myself,
since-- oh, city of all the dead and living, of the uncon,
of the living.
O crys cit site, in which I have believed to lose belief in.
To lose belief in was the disaster of her crosshatch,
when the April rains had come in the doing this twice
and in the couple, the positive couple of I and you,
and the negative couple who use a third to maintain
power between them.
There are two children, a baby and a sexual minion,
who sleeps in the corridor near need the house plants
and hopes to be called in for praise pris.
There are so many ways to be used,
is used in the first world of this city,
in order to be praised, to be power, to be song;
that the other be praise, be power, be song.
You or is it I?
I am used.
Some are never.
And one becomes painted in order to be
food with a lot of painted paint on the frayed or blurred face.
I am used.
I used to be user.
I will pose against a rectangle nude, perhaps
too old to be taken to some clubs, up the staircase
of the uptown landscape of West End Avenue.
See and then see again the iconic face of a woman
and then another icon of belief, but what was I?
What was the belief?
Was it simple belief, the belief itself?
Or was it of it?
Was of that there is it was of a Second World.
I have known a long time ago, days or months.
Taken up into a chariot of fire, into a flame
shaped like an inverted teardrop, scarlet father.
There are also two, and one member of the couple
will watches while the other's taken up
into the fiery tear of his death,
into the uncon of all the living and all the dead.
O, orange and red city of fire.
Assyr's crystal can fill with all of color,
the red catches there on the frayed or blurred face
of the icon.
Am I burning, or am I making sure the covered
paintings burn?
I have thrown them into the arena,
and they catch fire from the nearness of my hands.
At night, a man asks how I can do this,
but they are the wrong translations.
They aren't from the Second World,
and this too happens twice.
They are from the world of the negative couple
sleeping together and holding the blonde young to them
by strong invis bonds, a sort of rope made out of telepathy.
There are so many of these in our city bonds,
but in the Crystal City are none.
I can do this.
There are the wrong iconic faces of a woman,
but are wrong face because she wishes what
I, against a rectangle two of--
only one enters the fire, the chariot of lam flame,
but many await or the one that is all of the many dozen, all
the dead.
O, crystal to be taken to some clup clubs,
up the staircase pai pail with lavender glints.
And a silver thread catches from the nearness of hands
that is what senses touches.
But are there wrong?
Are there wron-- are the ones I have burned in the arena?
They are the icons--
that is, translations-- I can't keep.
They are faulty with wrong power.
A man second sleeping are none made out of fire.
It's the wrong fire.
They are a depiction of the pornography, for example,
of those who take disciple, whether in the sexual figure
of the ménage or in the school of school of.
I have taken the path of suffer, the made out of telepathy.
For many years, assailed cruelty by all thought
of past and present crowding in my head,
in contradiction, contradistinction.
And uproar cries against me, what part of heav--
could this be?
The night is pain paint, and I'm not in school.
I'm not in poem being used by all the voice.
And where is heav crystal heaven?
Where is Earth hell?
Where is what in all?
A voice said to me, o, nothing is containable,
and there is no way to keep all this separable,
either dead or alive.
There is no high sheriff.
I am always waiting and being again
t' being the again of any translation
was translated into heaven through a hole of music.
Remember, I remember that girl who
would cease to exist through a veritable black round
note in the page, the round inverted
red teardrop into which Elias translated the fiery chariot,
his hand out.
The ornate gold fire in the couple.
Would it ex cease to exist through a black round hole?
Though the music were playing, there
is no way to keep all this sep either/or,
to keep all this separable in quarters,
ghettos on own pages in stanzas under headings.
I think paradise absorbs it into, but in a more comfort
than I am.
Knowing can't go away.
I am burning the false translations, the false icons.
I am burn.
They are mine, and I can.
I can burn what I wish and will burn all my wishes, which
have been false icons.
Nothing little I have ever has been.
Nothing I have wished for has been right or just
or reasonable.
And when I lived without wishes, was most happy.
The only icons are face that is and the fire blond hair
of the ménage a trois girl.
The woman in thrall must get up and leave
the couple who use her for the game of their balance of power.
I am burn.
They are use of use her for the game of their balance.
There is no balancing act in the second world.
Though the remnant remain, the shred
of the thought to the song they sang that only they knew
would make them hate, hate each other in case they wanted to,
that the other coule couple lived without wishes most hap.
And the real baby knew nothing, knew nothing yet.
There is a place to live from from under the skin which
rends the live properly mythic that is in which I
know we are in the other city.
The crystal for this is a crystal river on fire
that flows below the surface of the me which you see.
And there is click belief and I l belief
in believing in the city I entered in a second yester,
saying yes and not being used."
Yeah.
Woo-woo!
[APPLAUSE]