The whisper blown on milk bottles is
You can go sleep off your ideas you have of heaven
The fair’s tears turn out be for weather
Not for the been eating decadence of
Dwelling on a dialling light bulb of.
Imagine that humans are the
inspiration for monsters that write.
And how can you Automatically
presume this Innocence isn’t
a coin questioning Confession.
Drink the rum smoke the unswept fires
As hats are tried that might also fit you
Does the coin fill the void of loveless meaning.
Like a glass ringing under grass entwined
Falling from my hands to Kyoto sunset
We all have the capability to bury our lies
In Japanese hieroglyphs
The haiku merely shortens the Devils
Pact that rolls off my Able tongue.
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