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The Origin of 
Table Manners

It finally began to dawn on me
It finally began to dawn on me
It finally began to dawn on me
It was everything I always wanted it to be

	His head is such a place
	as where minotaurs might dwell
	Little Ben Adam sleeps sighing in his iron cell
	swaddled by the clothing of the pungent dream-smell
	Will you go and wake him with a kiss or a yell? 

There's a rhythm in the sound of the old man's rocking chair
It's a given that the clouds are portraits hung up in the air
they tried to undress her but she's always and forever bare

	Her voice is like the water that is drawn from a deep well
	Oscillating like the air around the lip of a Tantric bell
	Ovulating like the abdomen of Abramelin's magic spell
	Is the body of the angel still lying where it fell?

Under the arc of the sky-signs the old woman weaves
Blueprints for the architecture of impossible trees
And a light rain is playing on the skeletons of leaves
And a napkin will save us from wiping our mouths on our sleeves