Sunday, October 22, 2006

The Idiot's Song

They don't bother me. They let me go my way.
They say that nothing can happen.
How nice.
Nothing can happen. Everything comes and circles
forever around the Holy Ghost,
around that certain ghost (you know)—,
how nice.

No, one truly mustn't think that there's
anything dangerous in this.
Of course, that's the blood.
The blood is the heaviest thing. The blood is heavy.
Sometimes I think I can't go on any more—,
(How nice.)

Ah, what is this a pretty ball;
red and round like an overall.
Nice, that you made it.
Will it come when one calls?

How all of this names itself rare,
driven together, flowing apart:
friendly, a little bit uncertain.
How nice.