Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Peter Orlovsky is dead.

Snail Poem

Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired
        & handsome felt, 
Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at
        blown up clowd. 
Ear turnes close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound
        of rain dribble thru this layer
        down to the roots that will tickle my ear. 
Hay grave, my toes need cutting so file away
        in sound curve or 
Garbage grave, way above my head, blood will soon
        trickle in my ear -
        no choise but the grave, so cat & sheep are daisey
Train will tug my grave, my breath hueing gentil vapor
        between weel & track. 
So kitten string & ball, jumpe over this mound so
        gently & cutely 
So my toe can curl & become a snail & go curiousely
        on its way. 

1958 NYC

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