正文 Landscape of a Pissing Multitude

Landscape of a Pissing Multitude

The meo themselves:

they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.

The womeo themselves:

they were expeg the death of a boy on a Japanese ser.

They all kept to themselves-

dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,

the sharp parasol that punctures

a retly flatteoad,

beh sileh a thousand ears

and tiny mouths of water

in the yons that resist

the violent atta the moon.

The boy on the ser was g as were breaking

in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,

and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,

obscure names, saliva, and e radios were still g.

It doesnt matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,

or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,

because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the

arches and

freeze you from behind the trees.

Its useless to look for the bend

where night loses its way

and to wait in ambush for a silehat has no

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