clouds

out there some where
  with the satellites in hand
the beams of neon and sharp shooters sights
       banging at the end of the ray gun

temple ball a long times gone
so its lazy in the woods with the concrete friends
chipped up
plastic planets for ears and burning sausages for eyes

chucking smoke over the rivers in the hills
the fingers of gods wiggling nails painted silver
made long by years of metal working man
          suffering ideas of another place to be

a some where else        so who cares
about
anything one two four three times in the meeting
brings the dark lonely golden ducks

falling out of their minds  the waters of thought
broken open and served up in this way
thrown slowly through shadowed windless liminals
  sullen flown and sheer