Bob Hicok - The pregnancy of words lyrics

Eros scrabbles to rose and rage to gear or gare, as in Gare du Nord, where I trained in to Paris from not smoking pot in Master Mad, I'm sorry, Amsterdam, with its can*ls called grachts and clocks that bonged my homesick hours at different times. Which is smite for you violet types, a flower that says “love it” if you listen. Me, I do and don't feel it matters that evil thrives in live, that we tinker and smash everything down to bits and then try to patch a path back home, it's our lotto in life, to have no clue what a natural disaster is when that disaster is us. That's what I love about the shrug, it says zilch sans le mouth and becomes more aerobic the more you admit the less you know, you know? It's a jumble out there, kids, with slips and slides and elide's eally ool, depending what's lopped off, as in light of   hand or slight of and, but I better spot before you pots how sparse this parsing is. Besides, what can I say about language other than it's an an*l egg in need of one glorious u. Words or sword — pick your poisson. Every time I try to peak into speaking, the bag of gab to learn what our noodles are really up to, I get flummoxed that the tools I use are the stool I stand on to see a way in or out. I can't even tell if  I'm more trapped or rapt, if meaning's mean or play's a dumb waiter riding numbly up and down. But have you noticed read becomes dear if you ignore the world as you find it and find it in you to swirl the word, in the way solve and loves are the same bones, different skeletons. Share this text ...? Twitter Twitter Pinterest Pinterest Source: Poetry (May 2014).