Fab-four intrinsic nucleonic pop is dead.
Left in their dusty trails are the tinnitus symphonies.
Out of silence come these imaginary melodies.
The Garden of Eden wasn’t too shabby,
And then there was philosophy.
Thirteen Fridays my elders, and never old enough.
Somebody examine my life and might it be worth living.
Lie down and cry on the pavement, or knock on doors.
There better never be agreement in the coffee shop.
I’d stop ordering the collected-unconscious-ideas-and-emotions soup.
Lately I’ve been fixating on living out near Jupiter, so soon as this quarter’s over,
I’ll launch my small business towards that Great Red Spot before going under.
The constitution once blinded me.
The visible universe may contain hundreds of billions of galaxies.
At once (and once again [and again] and again) I realize
Our eyes can’t open wide enough.
-MANGO
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