ruins with steel roofs
when the blatant flutter hazes your calls
on gazed on, open seated machines
to remove a motor
and bury the tail
to breathe the fumes of winter scenes
the constant mummer of ecstactic bodies, floating rapidly to cast light on days, of trees and tall escapes to slide the bereaved time to enable our rights, to excite a kind, another kind of life like sudden casting on red roots churning at the rocks that hold in spite... they all yield that warning of the lasting enthrallment exhaulting the site... emblematic chatters on your heard-of-lives and chimes in terrible outer-market calls on separate nights... sticking and folding like in-grown hair, the cracked and slumped ends on flinching castor waves of black to shoot aimed south, to shoot aimed south, to shoot aimed south...
reservoir of splintered eyes, like glass flicking upon the lake, but those eyes were used for site, now filling in the reformed intake...
reach high enough,
just high enough,
and claim the open span,
what's left is more of us and what's more is tendencies on the lamb
endless talks emphatically about the rain and hopes to see something other than a steady sign of life in her open hand... once one was buried neck deep to die, the ships came down, came down... harder times lead you to sigh in some acceptance of something there that isn't, because you took the wrong rout, their mankind... our kind of last dawning minds in black and hot red light in calling signs to an ending time...
to that one moment, where everything in it's chalky glory can find a resting point, to feel our souls settle, to rest for all eternity in a sanctuary of expanded confusion in looking for corners in circles, imperfection in the line... you choose sides... i'll own time...
to all those cast out souls, look left, look right... then here's where you'd hide, glance in on that sulking drought of choices and know where you turned directly off the overpass when you died... or look at the side of her face and see it there in line and in white, with scuffed red eyes, like an ugly child with a glimpse of light, cast by a CTR, in grip and grasping tight...
then know it well, as to the humming discourse round that tidal wave to call it all to rise...
then fall in the letters to mom about what happens before you die...
on gazed on, open seated machines
to remove a motor
and bury the tail
to breathe the fumes of winter scenes
the constant mummer of ecstactic bodies, floating rapidly to cast light on days, of trees and tall escapes to slide the bereaved time to enable our rights, to excite a kind, another kind of life like sudden casting on red roots churning at the rocks that hold in spite... they all yield that warning of the lasting enthrallment exhaulting the site... emblematic chatters on your heard-of-lives and chimes in terrible outer-market calls on separate nights... sticking and folding like in-grown hair, the cracked and slumped ends on flinching castor waves of black to shoot aimed south, to shoot aimed south, to shoot aimed south...
reservoir of splintered eyes, like glass flicking upon the lake, but those eyes were used for site, now filling in the reformed intake...
reach high enough,
just high enough,
and claim the open span,
what's left is more of us and what's more is tendencies on the lamb
endless talks emphatically about the rain and hopes to see something other than a steady sign of life in her open hand... once one was buried neck deep to die, the ships came down, came down... harder times lead you to sigh in some acceptance of something there that isn't, because you took the wrong rout, their mankind... our kind of last dawning minds in black and hot red light in calling signs to an ending time...
to that one moment, where everything in it's chalky glory can find a resting point, to feel our souls settle, to rest for all eternity in a sanctuary of expanded confusion in looking for corners in circles, imperfection in the line... you choose sides... i'll own time...
to all those cast out souls, look left, look right... then here's where you'd hide, glance in on that sulking drought of choices and know where you turned directly off the overpass when you died... or look at the side of her face and see it there in line and in white, with scuffed red eyes, like an ugly child with a glimpse of light, cast by a CTR, in grip and grasping tight...
then know it well, as to the humming discourse round that tidal wave to call it all to rise...
then fall in the letters to mom about what happens before you die...