"81" Poop Hatch - Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band

My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like a monkey on a

silver bar… big poop 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… the tires

and the bottles and the caruponrims… and the heat swims upon its

fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into

gold… trumpet poop 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 out

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 glass and tiny bits of newspaper…"My sun

is free from my window," said the god the green dabbers… rice wires

mouse tins and milk muffins… 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 glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon

midway between telegraph lines… a silver wing — a cloud — a rumbling

of 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 shoeand taps on

the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear… a typical

musician’s nest of thoughts 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 bookafriend 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… poop hatch open — big poop ha