Crazy Da Must Sing
The chemical, high and low.
Atoms to consciousness,
shroud up on the pole.
Mask and eyes, the moving parts
around me, is me. High and low.
Life is mine, interpreting nothing,
expressing all. High and low.
The lingam, already in me, is me
after all. But the serpent
sucks its tail.
Neither high nor low.
Confounds my seeking, round
and round.
I always return to the same time,
high and low.
The place is not surrounded,
here or there.
The serpent is confounded
everywhere.
Skinned and stretched
upon the lingam of my soul,
he still makes circles out of me.
My soul is round.
Unless I press upon the surface
with my soul,
and mime the signals of my waving light.
Then the soul and serpent,
high and low,
forever turn on me.
