I suppose, when you wake up nAnd the dream you goes dodo… nYou will find, in your front pocket nOne of those stubby golf pencils… nnConvincing living, nThat you, yourself is convinced of living… nTill your kidneys can’t clean the convinced nout of your true blue blood stream. nnAnd are you not now, professionally hoodwinked. nAn easy street penis throbbing down breezy streets. nIn a b-line like, easy like, bees like, broke down ice-cream truck’s leaks… nnYou see, nHowever so slightly permanent, nthese have been things sung… nThat will never be songs. nnOh I suppose nNot swansongmeat nNor bit nails spit nwith strips of skin nfrom chicken’s lips… nnot wet concrete nor stolen sleep, nwhen the water is sheets nand bleeding sheep. nHung horrible hymns nto a durable beat nand re-recordable grief… n