How do you know where the lawnmower grows?
Instead of leaving cuttings and shards of grass after.
Tell me to follow your literary disaster
And sell me some glass for a broken affair.

The long poem will not be there: – !
That was not so hard, was it?
Soppy open and shut case, does it.
The law, the lawn, some horses, some warning.

How does the cemetery sell the maiden for the cowboy?
Shawl and droppings in the misery post haste the shopping
There is dew on the Tavern where the cavern of my heart is still alive.
They give no strive
I have no give
Think on these things
That’s all I don’t give.
Here and there is everywhere
The sapping of advice from the spies who think thrice,

//
|| What if Eliot was one of the Irish?
Nobody falling down the stairs.
Where the rodeo sells up with the Studio music
And the nob ends enlighten their streaks.
Think at the end of the week,
That the end of the day was a holiday from affray
And how many words you satisfy the absurd
Who knew only to hurt so Buddha could {healthily} pay.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a landscape where order and disorder keep trading masks — the lawn and the law, the rodeo and the studio — as if meaning itself were a faulty machine that trims but never cleans. It speaks from a voice resisting erasure, refusing to rake away the cuttings of experience, insisting instead on following the “literary disaster” of broken affairs and ungovernable images. Cemeteries barter maidens to cowboys, taverns gather dew over hidden heart‑caverns, and advice becomes a kind of surveillance from “spies who think thrice,” all of it circling a speaker who has no more “give” left for the world’s demands. The poem then tilts into a speculative cultural dream — what if Eliot were Irish — blending American spectacle with British class satire, imagining a world where myths, roles, and identities are traded like cheap goods. It ends in a wry critique of spiritual capitalism, where even Buddha must “healthily pay,” leaving the whole piece suspended between longing for meaning and exhaustion with the absurdity of seeking it.