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