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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