Years ago I saw chairs silently galloping in the sky
in search of the souls too dirty for a mindfuck,
chairs everywhere looking for a lizard to step on,
priests drinking rotgut, cursing, crawling on all fours,
swallowing popular songs for preschool commies,
wallowing in dust with stray dogs. Stolen music,
the best part of the impersonal and unavoidable,
filled the air, likely to be sent back to the fabulous past
where a scrambled tale of a red pigeon was
the only valuable thing under the moon,
the receptacle of inanity and wet socks.


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