It’s the long-awaited uprising of feathered dishwashers.
Animals sleep in the post office every night.
This land is too old to let them in.
Airplanes, blimps, flying saucers invade postage stamps.
This land is too dark to make itself real.
The native chiefs have no idea what they might do to their hairdos or how to burn them.
Painters used to die from alcoholism, carpenters from being nailed to timber, now they don’t live at all.
Warblers grow bitter cyan loaves underground, in secret caves, actually everywhere,
And everything you see, you touch bursts with candies.
This land is too hip to play dead.


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