The female ****** is a rosebud
blossoming over the course of seconds.
Our organs were molded in the
image of clams and flowers.
gave his blessing.
As we realize, clams don't grow in sluices.
They must never be preoccupied with color.
They are content to be gray and to never move.
“Spit”, is their answer to any question,
And no person can tell how old a clam is by its growth lines.
It can be assumed that the are the owls' enemy, because they reject runcible spoons.
Their tongues retract at the smell of honey.
They must hate bees, flowers and peace as an action.
They are the only argument for Beau Brummell.
I wrote this in 1966-8
I could say I just came across this, but I deliberately looked for it and the many other scribbles that I've carted around with me through all the many places that I lived from there to here.
Nobody clams up over the right things
Flecks of dirt won't make beautiful ever
But those enormous irritations you take with a grain of sand
I tuck those things away
For a long while
It is against my nature to do so
It is awkward to keep salty things on the tip of one's tongue
Without spitting them out
Oh, I long to swallow
How much longer must I be closed up, love?
Our bodies are like clams,
our hearts are the pearls,
someone will find you and care for you,
they try to open you up to get to the pearl(heart),
but you won't let them in,
they get frustrated, they become insane,
they throw you away,
but inside your heart is sparkling and beautiful.
Why not let people in, before you lose them?
— The End —