The Incurable Desolation of the Soul - II

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread

bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all

beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed

by our own seed & golden hairy naked accomplish-

ment bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers

in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the

shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

 

Sunflower Sutra - Alan Ginsberg.

Done