the arrogance of exhibition.

Welcome back to silent dreams and shiver-screams: where all the restless children play. Where all they do is fair and free, like crows and eagles in dawning Day.

Rabbit-china and a hundred different colors like morning rainbows upside-down, and silent smiles amidst the strife: 
like my personal pot of ghostly-ferns: misguided and misnomered: broke.

And in the dark we flower-made: nether-light in the calm and sundered sea. Strong: and bright: and writ with might: poison-fronds for you and me.

The blood of elephants is red and true: with flightless faith he comes to you: with vanity and fear.

And perhaps share we must our eyes and ears: these orifices of long-past years: until death he does us merry part.

Pink and blue the sheen of death: covered thus in modesty: and white and black the fought and fair: of our doom-ed partnered reverie.

O you poor and rusted swallow-being: forever gone thy glorious sheen: you hang by heart on splintered heights: such as was the Cross of Christ.

Proud and fair you standing there: lost of limb and weather-soul: green and blue your hearts of stone: dreams go lost in the madding-hole.

Empty bottles: the sounding glass: have had their way with you and I: and the lives we wrought: now scatter-bought: will hang themselves in May.

Brothers three: then fair and free: tied down now come hand-in-hand: to have in heart and hold in mind: to hearkensay the Promised Land.

In Red we dance: and of Red we fly: and by Red we seeming see. In Blue she smokes: and Light she breathes: and asks unmindedly for cigarettes.

By day she walks on foundling beach: and in the eventide she falling fades. And the White of clouds: and the White of bees: and the White of ever-founding trees: comes tumble-down for me.

In the History of Suicide there is found a Gatling gun: and the language is never one you speak: for to daze the strong: and claim the weak.

I know a place upon the fray: where Day is Night, and Night is Day: where plastic fish drown in marble seas: and hornless bulls are hard to please.

On the train to Where We'll Someday Go: hangs befuddlery from window vanes: on the train where No Man Seeming Knows: hungry ghosts fill the flying-planes.

And on the trees where No Man Lives: there are endless works of What May Be: herabalores and heroes-liege: and the sin and sorrow of Teaubanee.

There is a magic light in all I see: all I fight: and all I flee: and come the mounts they tumbling down: hearth for hearth: and crown for crown.

And in all I fight: and all I flee: and all the restless tumble-down, the Woses call: they call to me: they call to me to come to drown.