A glorfax found a bolloro
and hid it under some snanxa-
the snanxa groughed though,
and the bolloro was no more.
Alas, the glorfax could not glorf.

Deep beneath a subtle glance
upon the skin, or upon the plants,
there lies a secret universe-
this land of sorrow, of romance,
where wiggly creatures all rehearse
the never ending microbe dance.

Gathering into their little mobs,
they wage tiny wars, and work tiny jobs-
they test their tiny roars and sobs
in tune to a timeless, wordless song.
This dance will ransom what time it robs,
so says the cells: it won’t be long
‘til they jiggle into jelly globs.

But dancing is older than they know,
and the song of change is slow.
As its structure starts to grow,
movements within these micro-nations
pretty soon will start to show
longer and wider variations
as symptoms of some new mutations-
on and on this dance will go.

In communist wasteland
billboard show dictator-
says, "Work hard
or we make you miserable."
In America,
billboard show pearls-
says "Work hard
or you make you miserable."
In Borga Borga,
no billboard.
Island five miles wide.

In communist wasteland,
election is fixed.
In American election,
opinion is fixed.
In Borga Borga,
everyone broke.

TV in communist wasteland
blame America
for poor in Borga Borga.
TV in America
blame Borga Borga.
Borga Borga blame TV.

Nobody want to live in
beautiful Borga Borga
but me.

Of all the woods I've wandered through,
the most exotic was of bamboo-
from photographs I'd seen a few,
and so assumed them a greener hue-
but this, it turned out, was highly untrue.
Bamboo, I have found, is a shade of blue,
with maybe some splashes of yellow too.

The great golden wheel serves only to steal-
the deal is lost as we buy and borrow.
It severed the hand while we sanded our sorrow;
abandoned the bleeding demands of tomorrow.

So now seas are rising where we reside,
but we must not think to run and hide.
Why don’t we decide instead to step outside,
and into sunbeams, glowing red?

To feel the flora fluoresce like an aurora,
or to hear the battle rattle like a cattle train;
to taste acid rain as it trickles off treetops,
and tickles the trembling brain.

Why don’t we decide once more
to die for today, and prop open the door,
for only to witness that light which will stay
far after our feet have forgotten the floor?

Why don’t we decide to play
together while the skies are grey;
together we will find a way away from here
where we have wrecked- what a lovely side effect.

Australia they say is filled
with all the things that get you killed:
snakes and spiders, birds and bats,
venomous dogs, and dog-sized rats.
But none in counting could ever forget
the continent’s infamous national pet,
by which you bet I mean the fly.

Like rocks with wings, or drops of dry;
like drones of death, the scouts of hell,
the souls of all the men who fell
to thirst along this twisted track,
or like some angry god’s attack
they swarm in shapeless, shifting form!

A black mass like a violent storm
is aiming for our ears and eyes!
Swatting is hopeless, but still one tries
to ****- just one! To no avail-
it’s easier to **** a whale.

Dizzying sweeping, swoop and swirl,
they’ll never sleep- just loop and whirl,
cry like a hammer who’s driving a Hummer,
then clothe us like four coats in summer.
Here paradise waits with a wave and a cuss,
and we found it after the flies got us.

What is this unholy place in which I have awoken?
Walls so white with light so dark; I, a body broken.
I see no sky, nor bird, nor fly; and yet I surely see-
it hardly looks like hell, and yet it’s hardly heavenly.
I am still free, so happily may find some friend or wife-
but I’ve no need now for to feed the greed of prior life.
It’s best for me to rest, for life is lost on the immortal-
for surely I’ll discover no machine behind this portal.
Maybe by day there was a way for memory to cleanse,
but in this place there’s not a trace of doubt upon my lens
that every last ambition was a fever-maddened dream;
tales we told were not so old, but rather it would seem
the measures of all men were as the shadow of the steam
rising from the heat upon some trickling desert stream.