I can’t help but feel that some house
(which I will not be looking at)
will explode soon. The view tickles
at my cheeky lips – these lips
have been to America! I screen
and the vanguard placates women
of Vietnam who pray to flags and vileness.
The poem in entirety is this –
I love you forever and beyond eternity.
Love is and when and never happens finally to fall.
The scintillating moment erupts
from the hill to pleasant flowers,
now growing greenly in the sun,
now wilted by erupting houses.
I am the castle and the grounds,
the caves of never-ending butter.
I am Walt Whitman standing
on a statue holding blue and green and purple flowers.
Matt Holiday at the conclusion of the day,
a scab of ivory against the wall –
I am 100,000 leaves blown in idle violence
together in a bleeding, screaming squall.
by Col. Baldwüllz