We could be daytime drunks if we wanted
We'd never get anything done that way
And we'd still be ruled by our dueling perspectives
And I'm not my perspective
Or the lies I'll tell you every time
Through the hook-ups and holidays you crave for that touch, smiling into glasses, staring through cups. And the haunted eves are ghastly pale, faring alone these days on the darker roads for the pairings are loose in the ghostly breezes tossing the auburns and blondes between branches. All the white coats and linen scarves shackle the disappearing phantoms in black screens flickering hertz-felt psalms, a wide-whale trench line on the Southside of noon. A warping world view changing cardboard in an antithesis. This is what we need, an umber salt lick to stain our souls, slant them in the polarised draft of harsh fluorescent pulsations wracking our brains. Maybe they still remain, deep to the melanin, pouring out through the skin, the mirror shivers them back until they spike the blood a bog of ethereal and mortality, molten gung ho pacifism. Red lockers with the grey beat caps swinging on hooks, a cane tap rhythm driving like madness in veins, but its all that sound of hell gone frozen, a rain blown hallowed eve. This little north Atlantic fossa, a carnal pooling divide where all hold tightly in the turbulence feeling the slow depolarisation of their lives. There’s a fusion in this a converging vertex of hope or fear or palms, and then a cataract thrashing with sheering sounds brewing bones pale and crystalline, fracturing the whole of us in a congestive detergent slaking the individuality. We are one. Parentheses aside I'd struggle with the taste of green, all moisture warped-Mosley and an event on every horizon bleeding of prismatic creases, welting into orbity the choking mass of pretexts that begin every apostrophe. Petty thieves and nameless sorts are all the caste of thousands... cheers.