Legs on the Signpost

The insane devotee throbs with his small legs, I don’t dare more. The insane devotee throbs with his small legs, I cannot do more. Bricks are yellow, made of polyvinyl, fattish. We people die.Lemme aks you, no l’s no r’s from the Japanese and Chinese, only the white mushroom, a cataract. Animals are prolific. You come from the valley, from your spine. From something more? From the risen sun. To smoke oneself on the roof. To change clothes and dry one’s hair in water lily.