Interchanges at everybody’s feet, watch gliding in migration, gilded movement, or the wet-lipped interpretive reed, signing off on winter sign in road. Took many a bloke hit observing it. And tranced by the horizon, blinded by the ground ‘neath feet. Flowered in shriveled defeat, writhing arousal from the naked brittle ass found on ground: your ass. And skid marks; can’t smell em but once you’ve been there you’ll always be there. Then again you can always be you with your morning coffee… Drank hot or steaming off the cold sidewalk next to sleepy tramp. And in which way can you be the eyes of the world. You can be a passionate man, speaking in pidgin warfare, ‘cause that’s what most folks do anyway, in the manner of “get off my lawn” or “why are you on my lawn”. Hear my body splashing around through time - “Maybe he’s drowning” or maybe just having a fun time. There is nothing attached. In the manner of the crowd, “The least mistaken woe is that of feigned happiness” and “with angular features one is in constant noir” and “fickle matters only make matters worse,” I said with a grin and reread the latest Peter Mantras. Now nobody will finally realize that it’s just me, and not only with feigned fickle features, I do maintain constant ease in this latest manufacture.