For Extempore
(dedicated to Don Cherry)
The metricisation of time can go stuff itself
the metricization can go screw its shelf
the imperial X is there, yeah
and here is the adult occident
sex on metaphoric demand
lop-sided attack with a set of keys
each picklock edged like a mountain range
cycle of plateaux configured
tempered for entry you stand
incident free algorithm lope
and scramble chowder for the squeak
the misread of the rushes by the factory creek
and how do you swing widdershins
averroes equilibrium jests St Gregory's mad switch square
and that's how what when the geoloki green silver surface
of colour in synaesthetic buddy
solid friend, cobber and simply cellular resonance
regeneration of time manipulated
and the pretty girls just wave their hands and complain by woohoo
and always on 5
that leg, and her idea, the natural growl of Oompapa,
bigfoot in Sasketchwan
green yowie and the Poor Man's Holiday
which was an ideal, somewhere between the freshets and the estuaries
the dotline curve, swing blue pole Jackson of Warszaw, he asks
delta of bayou? Damn it, and damn Iguazu at triple border of Latin America
damn the brie-rouxy of Django
and damn the noire gipsy with their ud
sleep with lion, rest 3 days with coyote,
it's why a flatfooted dutchie on hike only dance at gunshot
and they're still drinking the mead fill of fusion
and it's thought in the sophistication of contemporary Berlin
the mutter of Ales and Alexanderplatz that
if winter got too whacked
we could always dance our physics
Heisenberg and Planck turn French for a day
as the folderi dance to John MacLaughlin and the Mahavishnu orchestra for the tragics
duesseldorf's project today
progress occupied contra the neo nazi movement
and they linked hands in a circle
why, old Jesse Owens would've been proud to hear the word 'commune' was whispered on
the Alsace-Lorraine gasp
and that hippy of the schwarzwald wants to deviate and suffer twirls of mahavishnu, really?
Thai-dye and a tie for 8am beer at the Berlin bus station
man, the orient express doesn't cross the Atlantic and
it doesn't have to says, Art Blakey
and it doesn't have to ever, says Thelonious
and they sniff around the diff,
the Battle of Tours in your book
and the Battle of Poitiers in his.
