The note sleeps.
In a garden.
Like many and many.
He weeps.
At the sax.
At the alto.
At the piano.
Like many and many days on this ones not different.
Like on many days.
It rains!
It keeps raining!
I knelt down and felt.
I knelt down and blessed.
I felt and felt.
Undressing can make.
Undressing can't be.
With chemis and all distills.
The fall rite out of him.
Rite in the moment.
Moment of life.
Day to day.
Moment of days.
Written in the attic.
The heart said.......
The dance said.......
The collection said.............
Old novelties of sort.
Old magazines of smut.
Listen as he twists words up.
Imagine.
It's all different then.
In the fiftys.
All the time everytime.
Heels go down the board.
And the weight and sound were what ever some else said or believed.......
One drive out.
Out there.
In the alps as they might say.
In the country.
At meadow.
Where the apples grow.
They pasted by silently.
The kept their baskets in their car.
The didn't even move towards their.
It's the ghost again.
These don't bother.
These don't gather in the sunlight!
These don't calculate either.
In either book.
It's evil one of them said.
All them people.
And them not knowing.
Stumble forward.
Stumble stumble.
It's the bruise on the head.
And the hit to the back of the head.
It's the times these days!
That party was a gas!
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