Hey you dragon in the nude. The poet is living gnosis and sports a sorceress on each arm sniffing at your mouth and funny potions tasting the ancient mind smiling holy and ecstasy-eyed The poet the contortionist knows this so why waste your time Spilling rotten milk over storms for stickers, spelling prime time television rejects, that thick haze and weedy word resistant to sonic distortion, bouncy textures electrifying the moving picture show The front page pundits reporters street sources mumbling about salt cuts fists and blood blisters around the wordpurr, shaken awake Under fertile mushroom's tri lateral planes in the depths of space donut-shaped, an energy reserve and dugout causeway a space-book, busy world - and the spirit of man with a coat of paint.