flower-blower flower-flow to god-devil to god go may god guide you now for i

cannot guide you can't no more and long live who gave to me flower-border flower-blow and

even he who hasn't yet singing like a shamizen wrought with a wire tensed

just a stick and a worn tin can at feastfriday’s end sun high on high but for

others that music was not for it 'cause it could not be popular

that music if it's not sung it's not popular if out of tune out of tinkle out of

chink tarantine and still strummed on the tripe of pain the tensed tripe of a

furious physical pain and hurting hurting like a nail on the palm of the hand a

rusty blind nail impaling the hand an open naked heart like a nerve

tense retensed a black blind nail lingering on the palm the pulp of the hand under the sun

while for meager cruzeiros they sell those gourds where a good shape is

the fine thin line of miserly matter form of famine half-baked clay in the spoils

of repulse till others vomit their plastic plates with embroidered borders

in empire style for a measly misery 'cause this is what's popular for the

patrons of the people but the people craft the people create the people contrive

the people are the tonguetricksters the masters of malice with wily ways of wonder

and the vice to improvise probing the passage while oiling the sun's axle

for the lackeys lacking servitude almost pure metaphor the people il miglior fabbro

with their rhymed martelo galopado on the sieve of the impossible in the lives of the unviable

in the crucible of the incredible of their rhymed galope martelado and oil and axle of sun

but that string that string that bladestring that irksome moaning molar like

a demented string tolling its tuneless wailing widowed ring like a famished red pale

fire flower-blower flower-flow flower-border flower-blow flower-glower flower-blo'

because i cannot guide no more see this book this consumable commodity this god-devil

givetodevil book that i array and disarray then put together and take apart waggage

of a wanderer in the whirling of the world may god's will may devil guide you because i

cannot guide cannot glide cannot ride cannot stride cannot stray cannot trade but in my

meager things my cents my rings in my ten in my fewer than in my

nothings in my pains my antennas in the radios in those things so trivial

immaterial we call trifles viewing vervaine sugars or sugar lilies amaryllis or

petty circumstance all of that i know is worthless is cheerless i don't

know but listen how it sings praise how it tells taste how it moves and don't ask

me to guide you unask me to guide you unguide me to ask you a promise

to trust you and let you forget me and leave you forgive me for unbitter in the

end i'll be right in the end i'll go back in the end i'll make right and for the end

keep me right and you'll see that i'm right and we'll see what is done who has ways

for through crooked i went straight weaving one he wove all and if i don't

guide less regret for the master who taught me no longer gives teaching a baggage

of worldvision in a split-second illusion going back i went straight deftly turned

the evil ways i don't guide 'cause i don't guide 'cause i can't guide and please don't ask

for remembrance but dwell in my moments disobey my command and don't trust but defy

or confide or abide that through yes or through no for myself i'll take no

in the if of the yes put the no in the e of the me put the no and the no will be your mot