The rain is my master surround

The forests lie on their backs,

sucking up the fluid,

their foliages full with moths,

their years filled with time, flickering,

while the peoples of the Earth

dry their thoughts with white handkerchiefs

and meager excuses

Red German pencil sharpeners

are mistaken for high voltage transformers

on the outskirts,

beetles creeping like yellow cabs

along colloquial speech

Marksmen sleep with heaven zipped up

above them,

each holding a copy of Gustave Doré's Bible illustrations

The yelling of Chinese cities mimic otherworldly mammals

Tongues flap like Union Jacks

Building blocks are unfinished thoughts;

finished thought are shackles

I don't want to do anything before well after noon

I open a broadside of unknowing