I think this dong-weed should escape
sold my guitar to the baker’s son
a few grunts
and I’ll ladle Magdalena
take us to the rainbow
to the desert we’ll be gone
soon the desert will be fog
as the Aztec ruins in the doors of our people
like castanets on storm
when I see the bloody face of the bull
in the cantina, losing my hand
held the gong
the dogs are barking and what’s done is done
through the wrangle
way lucid in the shade
a wheelchair in a tower
and the eering of a goat
your wedding awl
the wading is long, but the end is Neil
with a serpent the burps in your ears
soon the horse will hiccup through the raingear
my head is my blade
clit-Magdalena, look up in the hills
