Stream of Consciousness, 3:30am

Careful, the rod is slipping
Seven days in a book I wrote this week.
In there lies many of the
Monarch butterflies
Lounging in space
When the cool meets the
Wooded, sylvan wish.
When the wish glances back,
Flapping it's jacks
The mouth of the smoker
Speaks steeped in tea
Leaves leave me alone
In the well-lit lab in Hoyum.

Haven't you found them,
Fountains of mistery
Misery and youth
And ignorance storm the
Castle of indifference
Stepping on the glade of innocence
Spitting on the trusses
Sniggling with the busses
The exhaust fumes
In the devil's cave.

Weren't they something?
Something they were,
All threes in the timepeice
Cape he wore.
Time.
And Fuego de Marcella
Is playing in my mind.
The many eyelids close
Over my contact
With outer space words

And my throat is only a
Part of me
And my exhileration is only
A part of me
And my fingertips fly
And my breath swells
And my voice shrills
Into your eardrums to
Wreck whatever it
Very well may.
If you like, you may have a pastry.

If you like, you may have a pastry.
If you like...if you like...if you like...

Until the roar and drum
Of every decent human being
Inside the machinery of existance
Is sounding once again
The life and breath and
Thoughts I was thinking
And Dreams I was Dreaming
As I lie in bed.
Ah, bed,
What a thought for Three
Three of us.
Riding no where
Spending someone's
Hard earned pay.
Two or three Friday driving.
Not arriving on our way back home.