hedy1

a friend, of sorts, wrote this for me today. anyone care to take a stab at what the fuck he means?
***

The red velvet of a curtain for instance,
the chain pocket pulling hard iron rods down
and down again again toward a dusty ground;
down from the high ceilings and wood smell,
down from the high theatre smell up top, the iron rods
again again along the topmost side of the building. Or

the silent type of blue that puts a hum
a sound of hum along the rubber ridge of men's ears,
pouring off the fabric, blue like heads of flowers
abstract other planet flowers we as boys dreamed
up high above the blue hum of the color blue, up there
are colors we have not yet named, but trust me Man
they Are, as we and you and all of us Are, Are
the way we Are, the way the weighty book is You
now, as you read alongside a piece of wood along the wall,
or you as you and a soft smell of girl wrap up and read,
they Are as colors without names, the people to your right
and left all in a line didn't they? These colors
suggest entire worlds, a smell of here and there,
suggest a small brown man inside a small brown dog
who moves two coats aside and parts the kitchen closet,
doesn't have the necessary decency to close it.
I have a Corona typewriter; I wonder why I chose
not to type this out on such a piece of beast.

'Visions of your chestnut mare' shoot through the end
of a buttered up gun barrel, Dylan buzzing around your eyes
blood all around the pools of dark from the shadow;
like the ones that hang dead under your legs,
and I know whats good is bad.