One more strange poem than I'll read the last one.
This is strange [INAUDIBLE].
It's called "Liverwurst".
My sandwich had not expected such travails,
and now, it has a story to tell, another saga
of my personal failures like the upside down tulip bulb's
short journey to hell and the guitar
lessons from the casualty who still had the solo on the air
but not the drugs no siree he'd stop the power
chords to convince himself was not
the bust of a dark sacred task.
Like drawing a perfect hexagon without the hexagon building
tool or swimming along underwater touching
the wall and swimming back.
By then, a new argument has taken over your brain, which
is becoming a raisin instead of a crystal palace
where czars and czarinas are sitting down to the giant swine
dinner, and wolves chase troikas on the steppes and idiots
play flag football in the mists.
Go along with the shouts, and it's 30 years later.
The spaceship has lost course when the crew
was in suspended animation.
Now there is an extra being on board, snarling.
I get the feeling I should be somewhere now.
Somewhere else.