That art of fuge Let bach rise in The grass the neihbor And I are mad for. The top of my longues. Every inch in my gut the air Escapes with the scream I saw this morning. The lonly seagull flying Over blue waves Moves to fast to paint The muse on sail boats Searching fornwind. The wind to go north. Towards the border Of new places. The heart im told Explains my metaphoric soul. But from the angle I saw Captured me with music. How mad was john clare When he saw the whole entire world. He wasnt crazy Im crazy to ingore The muse. The moonlite sonnata And day breaking dawn. Where the trees dead rings Tell me thirty years ago My mother saw six feet of snow And she was glad. Wennever can get tired When we act like children. The liberation hears every Seed in a pink lady apple. We were born to feel The colors of art. We were born to die in The irony of death. We came out with the ego Of a thousand parrots Repeat what youve learned and Heard. Give it to the universal Brahma of creation.