On Bustin the Sound Barrier

the neon dobro's F hole twang & climax from disappointing lyrics of upstreet outlaw mattress while pawing visiting trophies & prop up drifter with the bag on head in bed with next of kin to the naked shade—a tattletale heart & wolf of silver drizzle inevitable threatening a womb with the opening of rusty puddle, bottomless, a rude awakening & gone frozen with dreams of birthday fog / in a boxspring of sadly without candle sitting & depending on a blemished guide, you do not feel so gross important / success, tier nostrils whimper, the elder fables & slain kings & Inhale manners of furious proportion, exhale them against a glassy mud. . .to dread misery of watery bandwagons, grotesque & vomiting into the flowers of additional help to future treason & telling horrid stories of yesterday's influence / may these voices join with agony & the bells & melt their thousand sonnets now. . .while the moth ball woman, white, so sweet, shrinks on her radiator, far away & watches in with her telescope / you will sit sick with coldness & in an unenchanted closet. . .being relieved only by your dark Jamaican friend — you will draw a mouth on the lightbulb so it can laugt, more freely

for got about where youre bound.
youre bound for a three octave
fantastic hexagram, you'll see
it dont worry, you are Not bound
to pick wildwood flowers, . . .like
i said, youre bound for a tree
octave titanic tantagram

your little squirrel, Pety, the Wheatstraw