Declaration of War

 Declaration of War

When the flower at the depths of existence inside parched hair

brings us a praise of light alongside the tumultuous crowd,

the footsteps of young laborers offering help to the moss-grown houses of daughters.

The texturing hands of the trees above, granting sanction to it all — that is to say, pigs love trees,

and Christmas carols whip them fiercely,

and yet, upon the skin of our hands cast down into existence,

I once attempted to smile

For some reason, it looks white to me

The breasts of the women laughing at that light

Before my eyes, without even time to catch a breath

The cat climbs upward

Soon the car begins to move

When the donkey that lives on smoke starts to occupy

The ink of the pen inside the mist of the rustling wooded roads

It brings me the greatest joy, and before long, the women eat the caterpillars of the houses

It is like the smell of armpits

At that moment, the lights of the houses are turned off

The reason black wants to make yellow stand out is that

Somehow, a cobra by the wall is licking my hand

The trees are green

Why is this the road in front of the station?

While it is so very easy for a woman to conceive

The numerous pages of books where people bring

These living feet to the tower

Without healing the fatigue

Drinking down the cylindrical mineral, there I soon find a shape that opens up the universe, but as for the iron chains, a flock of angels building the gate have their feathers plucked

And beside me, a woman’s single eye and a scrap of a foot torment me.

I know it without it being said.

The reason iron begins to eat before God does, is that the flock of hides destroying the rulers — the footprints of the Amazon are always the first.

Bullets from a helicopter

When I eat shellfish, always intending to have started seeing them

The dream of the rhinoceros in the river water that causes fatigue eventually begins to emit light.

When I know the eyes, I dance and break off the horn.

The reason the snort of Hercules releases a piece of paper from the darkness of the universe from ancient times until now

Signifies the rebellion of the demon god — the sound of a typewriter, my eyes imagining from the many shapes of tomorrow’s woman

Before I know it, morning arrives

The spinning wheel utilizes colored pens, and the tears of the flowing eyes will not allow it.

The world of earth science seems to know that everything decorating those eyes, which opened the closed eyes of the woman, lies in the feet.

However, on that day,

I saw a tapir in my dream,

which seemingly meant I was bound to end up knowing a camel-like saccharide that signifies a woman.

But since it all looks like magic to me,

wonder gives birth to numerous foolish acts,

and witty agony seemingly turns the roads of desire into steep slopes.

Grasping the narrative makes the unfolding of mountains easy, and the pond watching it eventually loses its water.

When the flocks of birds began heading toward the east where they circle,

I do not know, but it must be impossible to tell apart.

Even so, they say Jonah of the river-flocks will eventually use a pet,

so the feeling of joy born from wonder is utterly sickening to me.

A woman saying such things has, over the past few days,

stared at me wide-eyed through that hair of hers,

so it seems I might as well enjoy these days of rushing on the motorcycle here and racing through hell.

But, after all, that woman’s breasts are the cries of animals.

To suck the grasping yet clinging eyes of figs with my own is a fine story indeed,

but they say it is better than a woman with a huge, empty head, which makes it amusing.

The man saying this, out in the countryside,

seemingly catches loaches and tries to kill them,

but at this very moment when fighter jets roam,

the way he will eventually cut off heads implies exactly this:

Because there is no food, tomorrow on the mat, he found the moonlit night merely among the mountains,

meaning I end up searching for these crowds of men whose countless aspects are not easily understood and must be reexamined.

Beyond the tent, a flock of sheep, seeking river water,

seems to have heard from somewhere about a large human face of a bird flying in the sky.

That it is fine for the face to fly away

is like saying it is useless to try and stop the void from piercing through.

Such a is

In a certain pasture, among the cows, a bullet-like shooting star flashes,

so for what possible reason do I seemingly begin to clothe myself in companions possessed by evil spirits?

Even if I look down at the school building like this,

the crotch of a slightly exceptional woman is flying away in my great sky,

and it seems my breakthrough might be found between the left mountain and the right river.

The prey I aimed at here flees rapidly,

but my hunting rifle will not have it.

The footprints of the woman I saw in the Himalayan snow conjecture this,

which is unforgivable.

Anyway, because the flowers

are looking down at the sky so splendidly, it is useless to compare such various events to the deep sleep of a virgin.

The needle of the pen running across the dial

is the same as the hollow of a windmill invisible even to a clock,

so that does not work on me; they say that anyone who knows a woman’s true heart is a Sasquatch climbing party looking at the mist in the wind, yet they dare not meet with disaster, so that must be me.

And so, the scream inside the blood coming from my arm began to operate slowly in my right foot,

that is, the crumbling bridge piers of my friends tormented me day after day.

Existence eventually reexamines me within the sun,

and it feels utterly strange that the place where the handkerchief was cut and dropped is being painted with blood.

By the way, as far as I know,

they say nothing consciously perceives me as beautifully as a woman in front of the glass.

Around that time, I also come to know the face of a man drenched naked by a lady shimmering on the Pacific Ocean.

Ever since things turned out this way, the battle has scattered the regiments of Guadalcanal into pieces.

The glass collapses,

and it seems the men in suits

are always tightening their grip on the school by passing through the narrow paths along the river like this,

but to me, it does not look like terror at all, and because I absolutely love girls,

hearing that when a woman walks, it is necessary to smell the blood of the milk from the baby carriage that brews stairs.

Even if it feels very good,

the ladies who flatly declare that they do not care even if what eventually pierces through is pulled out, and who are said to be sleeping in good spirits from an absurd place, are happy.

Since the flow of the pen drawing this moment from the long life of animals is the length of a swan’s neck that grants happiness to a woman,I am afraid, in these days I possess, that a magnificent autumn evening does not seem like an absurd thing to me even if it snows.

Yet, are these midsummer days not perhaps my weakness?

Erase the ink, end the battle.

Twilight is the morning sunset fluttering in the water.

Irons banish stones,

and the future creates this moment.

They say astronomy is open,

so it is the summer evening of flying days.

Even so, I must still receive things I have no memory of.

The victim seemingly dyes the stranger black. The black sunset must not be temporary, and again, I try licking that hand.

Various things.

The head in the twilight is empty.

But I will go.

I do not think it is a rustling reality.

Just as birds fall silent by the water,

hushing everything that has happened until now,

I must go, if only for the departure.

More so than those things,

leaving the abandoned corpse as it is,

I sought the pulsating female body.

Then several days passed,

midwinter days that manifest days where it is fine

even if my throbbing heart is gone.

With the sunrise, I go, a summer evening.

That means “endorsement.”

I hear the sound of pure water telling me to proceed just as I am.

From the mountainside of that mountain,

the shape of the towns must have been visible,

yet I must cut them off, these winter days.

Erase summer,

and upon the burning body of the woman,

I am beginning to know something extraordinary.

Since all such things are an ensemble upon the water, it is utterly uncertain to me.

They say using detergent leads to knowing how it feels to become clean, so it is like a hotel.

A ship proceeds through the storm.

A single rat drew its last breath.

Did it know of this day?

Since I like little insects just enough,

I saw an avenue of trees inside the bath.

With this, half of this poem has passed,

but I remain without knowing what always stands in our way.

— —

30/Oct/1980