Chapter 4 other poems

I really want to thank the skin all over my body, in Make it when you put the oil in the pan protect my casings pour some more on my boobs Garlic Juice, My Bed It's the dish fear me Hair that hangs off the plate? like one face to another I stare at you and ask you take a slice very thin and salty joke, caught in your bread gentlemen: Mustard makes me itch! They don't hear what we've said over and over again they don't look at each other even on the surface root but looking for each other in the mud If you find it, kill it Some of us put This behavior is called:

Love Lovers who have just risen from the bushes thinking about it too They call it: make love. hugging the birch tree for a long time like hugging myself: The mountain of red peppers is exciting me Hands full of stones sprinkled on the ground The trees are full of memories... Autumn is the saddest piano The past, playing vigorously: The fields are harvested homeless field If you want to cry, don't miss this great time! Absorb the cold of winter and listen to the distant movement of clouds The trees in the north stand in the February wind parting, also stand there Reflected far and clearly on the glass window

A midnight sweat, a dawn rain in a foreign hotel The wheat fields in the north start to breathe Like in a corral, cows startle the earth with their heels alone, keep a hearing but no, no inspiration can continue to squeeze the city city ​​of stones in the north sowing the sower's shoe to the canvas alone The plow, detached from the earth Like a cloud that can overwhelm the city I, use your wall to face your vastness Identifying the place of birth from the postmark stamped on the ham Like planting wheat and harvesting wheat, always holding your breath From the neighing of a horse, always

Waiting for the two cymbals eagerly to come together In the village where the cold fisherman beats the dried fish Carrying the newspaper of the day, swallowing oysters against the wind Count the buttons on the collar of the double-breasted collar, always Can't count when it reaches the throat always standing in clogs and stepping on stilts Build a pergola with your hands and watch two birds in flight Sharing the same pair of wings, but Always can't see half of the clock face A big slope full of chopsticks, ten thousand horses The paper horse is burned, and the inside of each shoe is cleaned

Each peanut in full bloom, optional Can't always choose the conscience of a nation The lowland jutting out from the forty thousand acres of tulips Waving to the mascara-painted horse head Always take a big seat, three thousand dead people weave Every brick and stone in the old city always emits a human voice On the line where the bones of the ancestors refused to be turned into stone statues Listen to the sound of cannons when the horse urine is about to drip down the horse's legs always spouting blood with a broken arm, the stone man's mouth is open That always makes someone hurt, it's a blessing

But just send it down with a big mouthful of shochu, and then The Chinese language of butterflies overflows from the brain of a dead horse Ask the seventy-two pines, don't ask the master's cicada forest The pain was only allowed for a short moment, but it was extended infinitely── Since the desert is completely out of shape, it must be the wind When you meet a right angle, you have a promise to keep Less learned than lost Less can be missed through the hourglass But it's the extra stuff into the later weather In locations where the wind and sand are more evenly distributed

It looks more and more like a city That which cannot be thought, cannot be spoken, cannot be made And a fate that cannot be shrouded, like Walk into a shoe store from every side of the old town here is there, where It's all over the place, where the Phoenicians used to be Looking around with the whole cowhide Also covered by palms begging for money That's the sewage pouring out from under the door When sharpening the smell Emit the presence signal: if Someone's here just to take away the sunshine It must be a kind of nostalgia that can be taken away especially the broker against the tin sky

The moment the false eye is installed, there will always be someone Aiming more nervously than a punter: The hate shot from the eyes of the masked woman It also concentrated the beauty of her whole body, as if Not only bent thought, but also succumbed to thought...