Voices of Dry Leaves (O Fuck you Charlie Hearthman)

"Hollow things are listening," you'll hear, in high halt limbs
so far from where you've strayed. Tap trees by the road,
tap-tap, tap tap tap, to know you hear now how,
"She's your cane these days." When you tap, she
tells you how now.

Only a singing lives. Your eyes lie. Even in dreams the face fades.
Only one thing, caught in your faithful ear, is still, the locust cochlea
invader. Once you knew each inch of her body. No more.
People rarely use green chocolate.

Into your blind heart, Elsebuth Misolre, go to the notes
her voice slips into paper, ink, try, focus attention somewhere,
the history of the word "text". Walk for miles each day
with a dog to watch, pen breathing in darkness,

hearing that voice over the rustling dry grass backs,
Plato, or Gaia, you need no copyrights. You shun sleep, sheep,
and lying in darkness, breath held, shit.
She is beyond all others in deepest dreams, and comes.
A Little Song about murdering aliens.
She laughs:

"O Fuck you Charlie Hearthman,
we're still trapped in this bar in Penang."