lirik lagu 81 poop hatch – captain beefheart
my eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like
a monkey on a silver bar …
big p–p hatch with a cotton hatch — hatch holes
that the light shows in and the light shows out …
and the little red fence …
and the wire and the wood …
and the barbs and the berries …
and the tires and the bottles and the caruponrims …
and the heat swims on its fenders and the dust collects
and the rust of autumn surrenders into gold …
trumpet p–p on the ground with peanuts its bell was
blocking an ant’s vision …
and the mice played in its air holes and valves …
a ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red
and blacked its wings and blew off to a flower …
its hum heard just above the ground …
black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive
tree that originally held a tree house full of a building
with one small window …
birds and broken gl-ss and tiny bits of newspaper …
“my sun is free from the window,” said the god the green dabbers …
rice wires mouse tins and milk m-ffins …
cereal and stone …
matches and masks and mace and clubs …
and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a dust jeweled penlet …
cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and find
collected gl-ss that drinks the reflection of midday
afternoon midway between telegraph lines …
a silver wing — a cloud — a rumbling of a cloud …
a crowd of various violins strum from next door through
my wall into my ear obviously artificial …
neighbors laugh through sandwiches …
harlem babies — their stomachs explode into roars …
their eyes shiny with starvation …
spreckled hula dance on my phonograph …
my door rattles windy …
sand wears my rug shoe and taps on the unheard finish
of an hourgl-ss i cannot hear …
a typical musician’s nest of thoughts filter through dust speakers …
“why don’t you go home? oh blobby,
are you great,” exclaims two lips in some jumbled rock
‘n’ roll tune and wears a spot i cannot scratch …
the surface of a friend …
this high book a friend laid on me …
on the couch relaxing in the corner behind a still
life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads slurred
in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by thought …
strain on the spoon like a wheat check — check bif
— cotton popping out of his sleeve …
p–p hatch open — big p–p hatch with a cotton hatch
— hatch holes — got to pick up the h-rns …
but the head won’t move until it walks
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