The man in guide khaki gave this
Island The hands of a warlock clap

Unto them Get up the diesel engine
He said get it goin it won’never die

He spit to the raised dirt It smoked
He chewed whole leaves This breakfast,

cake for dinner And they stole into the hills in
Old falling waves He told in the pale smoke off

The ocean was alight and layed on
Their faces clean water The gallery of pampas

Grass bathed, staining And so it came to pass
He played the brakes He called to the Bison

Like this Hello, young man—your Grandmother
was a movie star—She come here onna pontoon

Her cousins back home skinned, burned,
Ate Anyhow, He’s old He aint never been a father

he’s real Who’s hungry He spat the death
Of his mouth well past the metal at his breast

Later noon came they came to rest
They righted their backs at the tires

They ate fresh melon or made water on
The ground before trees They bawled as calves

He pulled his lip thus and filled it,
Called the tour to their feet

To know again the plants the climes They came
To walk an angle This spell in the foul wind at the bluff

He righted, inhaled He pointed to the fins of carrion
Lit down the sand The shape of a gorgon

The gales with spoil in them You caint just up
and walk from a sea Thy Bastard Son: Holy Shit

this is boring The man in khaki spat the dark
Don’t you cuss your mother