Verse 3a

su-re-unknown stew-ream-off-consciousness
tackling tattered thoughts.

harry-harpoon-holiday has
the grip of thought-sound
causing thought-sound,
H-houtside of da conquer-troll.

Calm is the only answer to the realisation that these words too, are not mine: Just surround-bites in the soundstream.

"sure da man don't walk da dog; da dog doth walk da man."

Data-dreams, 'n'an outspray of interpretations.

Hold me, it feels. Hold me together.

But, what yea-yea-yeats once said fell apart at the streams,
as the will-o-thee wishes, wept,
so bitterly.

Come now. This is not to be under-stood.
Such tittle-tat is to take one to the un-known
where no one's one can go.


The End

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