such poetry is this that so well preserved
the moment adhered to;
but their prose is oft so absurd
and reasons out everything we’d once reserved
the madness of art!
it never speaks out its name!
o but the maddening of men
makes out of them a game
we who speak without doubt
remember nothing but shout
out loud with our hearts made and stout—
leave it to the angels above to work out the kinks and bugs, all our connections, and our history