Only Real Men Go To Sleep Worried About Warts & All
I am smelling madness's soft bouquet as it pouts across the folds of my mindless brain, as it increases speed over the hills of the country in which I was born. The land of Bradshaw art and golden soup that is left for the dogs of music and art, those old barren bitches that lounge searching for metaphor and hidden doors within word and sentence and oil and pastel and poem and velvet jacket. I have so little time to see the old lady die, so little time to watch as the real zoo burns between pause and neglect. Where will these canoes take us? to the land of the falcon with the silver brooch pinned to its claw, tearing at the chain that is linked to the almond boat that glides a full half mile in front of the sober man that sinks down below his own education. Ah! there is no true arrogance amongst the young homosexual Indian boys, there is no true colour between the advertisements and the brick. Do you have that song bruising your imagination? Still after you have circled this road o