... do not speak to me of the wisdom of philosophers ... esp. as it pertains to poets... their mad delirium no

worse or errant than philos and their crazy labyrinths of thinking and the tendencie to goovern the world one way

 or the  worried way  other

  do not speak to me of the wisdom

But along the strata at the broken plates,/(the left-over-pake) speak of caution as this madness flows in and over you've who dedicated yrself to

    the word spoken/written from the mouth of volume  ..
  ah to say

  you're a poet nothing harder

to say in a  world a  world of essence and appearance and power and those

  who stabbed poetr y in the back turning to distraction gaining their secondary audience their false format

and her rat dangled cursed fur

 by the dock and bay the squirty thing of her cunny the well sprung dig of anal lodgings i refused

O poets there's a rule maker at every door
   telling you this an this from the mazy labyrinth of constitution dragging your ass

but I who am you speak from the misty days of the dead

 saying what's the body's answer to the land of t he  dead and the living and the head?

  but the toilet where the crust of being is shunted down a shit hole
imitation like a spoke word crapped up in its own thing

not that motor mouth whose catholic gangster's hypocrisy's done no one any good

do it this way! do it that !

push each syllable twogether like two prosorted  prosittude bodies two crushed fuckparters not  lovers

 not like lovers in their tenderness wooing


  poets never make mistakes
                                                  when writing  

 theres no chance wing in this business   .