The boulevard of stepless steps,
The road of thoughtless thoughts,
of empty faces,
of reddish blood
Which I am tracing
The place I’m standing,
but I am not -
The saddest moment,
no, not the saddest,
is the worst,
The horriblest,
The kickest horse
has ridden over me
but there’s no trace
I am still standing,
am I?
My hands are straight,
but do not feel this
way
although want to find it
for it won’t find me
otherway,
Though everything is blinded-
The bookish book is
being written now,
The maddest folk is
riding over
ding-donging to the
very bladest hole
the boiling hole of
wavy water -
I am not standing
on the field
at which used to
it’s not this vast
and plain indeed
I see it now,
The line is not the
round now, is it?
I’m trying not to
break it broken free-
there is still something I can
feel,
that something keeps me,
I’m standing on my legs,
not knees,
although feel overridden-
The dot is dotted
No commas further,
The furtherbility is
determined-
The hole is full of water
but I’m not drowning,
drowning I
am
not
?