He does not live here but it is the god.

A priest tools in a top his motorbike.

You do not enter.

Us the landscape circles hard abroad,

sunned, stone. Like calls, too low, to like.

One submachine-gun cleared the Durga Temple.

It is very dark here in this groping forth

Gulp rhubarb for a guilty heart,

rhubarb for a free, if the world’s sway

waives customs anywhere that far

Look on, without pure dismay.

Unable to account for itself.

The slave-girl folded her fan & turned on my air-condtioner.

The lemonade-machine made lemonade.

I made love, lolled,

my roundel lowered. I ache less. I purr.

—Mr Bones, you too advancer with your song,

muching of which are wrong.