Saturday

(everything is at the Dragon's mercy - don't worry about a thing.
you're will doers and you'll hear the call if you don't have your own wishes.
too complicated for the “unprepared mind”?
oh, all right.)

“Eliza wept.” and a “..enchanted river..”
I’m sentimental. I didn’t know that about me.
it strange sense of absence
but the forest is my friend
and my five oaks
and the red spider evacuated into the shadows.
a the willows and the red dew sparks
a the horseshoe on my door
and I've always been lucky
and my well.
My the well
provided me with a haughty posture hands-on-hips.
none of this
belongs to me anymore.
Yeah, "..and the bird will sing as it sang."
Did that poem say something else?
really?

Foreign speech fascinates me.
I really don't want to understand the nonsense that's being said.
and mercantile gains can't beat charm.
I could forget my name if I wanted to.
and not recognize a single familiar word.

Did you hear that big woman sing?
I'm sure her song is full of platitudes.
but I don't know about them
That's why I hear her right.
It's a different level
and I weep and rejoice with her.
Can that really be changed to a communication skill?

You'd think there wouldn't be enough fools
who speak the same language as me.
I don't talk to them anyway.

speech isn't perfect at all.
you're always talking about the wrong thing.
and the intent of what you say
doesn't match what you say.
Believe me, I can see any structure.
Oh, yeah, what's this about:
“..he was appalled and fascinated by it.”

It's a disease called "beauty shock."
patients run around in circles and scream
when they can't stand the sight of perfection.
The only people who are not affected by this disease are Swedes,
for some unknown reason
they have an innate immunity to enthusiasm.
I’m sentimental. I didn’t know that about me.

I like instrumental music.
Don't tell me anything. You know you're lying.
trying to explain yourself with words.

(and they like suffering and humility.
guns what's that? we're used to
weeping and burying.
I don't want to talk about them.)

there's nothing stronger than words,
but words mean nothing.
this paradox is not a paradox only for poets.
I can't believe
I didn't know I was a sentimental person.
And
“..Half-sensible, and purple with gasping terror,
he came out finally into the warm and practical sunlight.”
It perfect.