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Overloading the Machine

The Racket

The memory of painting these pictures for you

                                                              Lawns undecided
                                                                    vicinity
                                                                    only odd
                                                        a lash on your cheek

believing it all

                                                            the crop in shade
                                                                    evidently

though other-absorption encompasses

                                                                the seasonal
                                                                    nuisances
                                                                      painted

Her hips not swinging per se. Her belly on the fence

                                                                      leaves

a remnant viewed through a spool

                                                                        rips

You were not allowed to be much of anything
toiling to bear the torn picket line

                                                                  The cradle
                                                                      wooden
                                                                sadness above

And, styled as an unknown

                                                      drips of the afternoon
                                                                the sneakers

I was almost there
Up in the lighthouse signaling you.

Later shoulders seemed armor
And the tough spot we ink to lecture Mankind
On Love,

                                                          length of the spoon
                                                      the remnant multiplied

Was repeated

                                                              The examination
                                                        tumbleweed confidence
                                                            towering quartets

the offender being fire escape but not in ambiguity

                                                                undercurrents
                                                          the finger's thorn

to a jug of bathwater, dousing the mugshot with saliva
Instinctively stealing the goods,

                                                              pre-expiration
                                                                  but dirty.

"...The name of the song is called 'Haddocks' Eyes'!" "Oh, that's the name of the song, is it?" Alice said, trying to feel interested. "No, you don't understand," the Knight said, looking a little vexed. "That's what the name is called. The name really is, 'The Aged Aged Man.'" "Then I ought to have said "That's what the song is called'?" Alice corrected herself. "No, you oughtn't: that's quite another thing! The song is called 'Ways and Means': but that's only what it is called you know!" "Well, what is the song then?" said Alice, who was by this time completely bewildered. "I was coming to that," the Knight said. "The song really is "A-sitting on a Gate": and the tune's my own invention."

-- Lewis Carroll, "Through the Looking Glass"