Here are three poems. How did I compose them?
Turn to the waters of the Atlantic,
Everything is broken; site control;
the chaos, released on the world.
Blood-gray in the political tide is loosed,
and everywhere at the innocent drowned;
a good general lack sin guilty full of deep flavors.
I am the oldest bank receives tourists.
He said, “two legs and trunk
they stop in the desert . . . There, on the sand,
half-frown, lying face broke down,
and lip curling and the face of cold command.
They say that they read their own passions and sculptor.
This is the seal of the living things to survive,
beating them and nourishes the soul.”
This is real life? The right of this?
Caught in the slip (no escape from reality).
Open your eyes, looking at the sky and see,
I’m just a poor boy, I have no girlfriend,
because I do not come easy, go easy—
High and low, low, low—
But the wind blows: there is a lot of significance for me