Zzyrg Don’t ever look at me I have to stay near the end I keep the alphabet in front So I can hide

The lamb inside our secret depths retreating back to the womb, our mother of our world, our harbor in the stormy sea, our iron man turned to liquid,

Precision Devotees A marriage of music and love Where notes are consummation beds Tender caresses and tears together A maestro as a musical deity

That Sound You with your silky hands Your hallowed golden strands Surround me with thy rousing voice… Your sober laments and your rejoic…

We of the brave and fearless sort, When our visions seem to be cut sh… When we stumble along the charted… We pick ourselves up, comes anothe… What is a storm but a prelude to a…

The corn fields ready themselves… with a golden yellow maize and loo… The summer’s air has come and sett… in accord with the steadfast yearl… The time has come to go to the fie…

Pushing sisters don’t know where, With arms and legs and lofted feet… Into space or inner currents They fly like birds and crazy ants… They sing a song of coconuts

As we look up into the sky or skie… the one that belongs to us or the one high above another world, a space within a space or a land within a land,

Tapping of the drums From the clouds on high, The troubadours of the ruffled air… Euphonic cantata of the ruffling, Rhythmic lore of the highlands,

The me in the age of robotics, my arms, my mind, my legs, my self… connected to me but not connected, moved by the wind but not felt in… my knowing of the mechanics of the…

Between two silky thighs apart, flaming cello with a beating heart… lovely limbs and lovely sounds, erotic prelude to a weeping cantat… crimson gates to the hinterland

Up high on the stage, Where hours melt into minutes, And minutes into seconds, And seconds into nothing, Where music eats up time