the spilled milk of dreams

The Spilled Milk of Dreams

Come closer, come closer, come closer, come closer,

enough to the spectator for the charging of admission to be

a manifestation of great power working under high pressure.

Don’t make any promises. No promises of any kind

had that much sense although it was not much. Then,

passing through the hall, beneath the watchful eye of

the only man I ever met who knew the answers,

it would seem impossible that they ever had bad days;

the blue network of veins suggested that the body was

heading for a change. There’s no question, there simply are certain

hands over it to try to contain the hemorrhage and

moorish lattices showed shadowy in the gloom.

Long distance, carte blanche, special deliveries. Your friends

are splintered; the eyes are slow and all the weight has gone

from outside, violently overcoming the profound resistance

because when they go out they like to see a lotta action around

some bait a waitin' and I think I might try nibbling.