Quick! a last poem before I go
off my rocker. Oh Rachmaninoff!
Onset, Ma**achusetts. Is it the fig-newton
playing the horn? Thundering windows
of hell, will your tubes ever break
into powder? Oh my palace of oranges,
junk shop, staples, umber, basalt;
I'm a child again when I was really
miserable, a grope pizzicato. My pocket
of rhinestone, yoyo, carpenter's pencil,
amethyst, hypo, campaign bu*ton,
is the room full of smoke? sh**
on the soup, let it burn. So it's back.
You'll never be mentally sober.