Here I see a shadow
It's a flicker 'round your mouth
Are you laughing at me or with me?
Underwhelmed and unkempt like chafing against a texturised fashion we watch the utrecht lights ballast and blast against the starry inside of cheap window frames. Canada is a dream now, much like Guam or the Peloponnese, and with that we waver slowly, spit-turned. Another icthyo-ic, landless archipelago. A grease-paint Aleutian chain. Maybe this is cancer, crab-claw-crackling of limb in the water-stained heat. Like I'd eat these sapped-up, commercial vanities loose in the sagging economic drain pipe. Some stem, some pistils firing leaving smoke signals of death to blot outside the sun, plain clothes hung on an Egyptian cotton telegraph line.
Picture this. Halfway between here and five minutes from now I will be nothing more than an ant farming foreign revolutions singing nothing-songs in a nothing-hum bleeding out of nothing-vessels unborn, liberated in no-land of a nothing-sun. I have no photographs from this borken camera. No film negatives fit my funny little lens of humour and manage to see all the color bits outside the UV, the cinder smells rising up in phosphorescence, cracking splash-white Samothrace. These are precious threads growing through the vanilla schwag, just an arch of meerschaum blistering into the stone claw of deep, blue night. And when she drizzles ichor, you may believe in the dirt castles wallowing around your feet, one thousand thousand generations ludely playing with our meek shadows as figures ghosting down meadow leas passing secrets, passing regrets. Cave into this. Never cease to wonder in the hopeless, loveloss life that ever marvel is a sin and each sin a holy joy; candid as we've been there's yet to be seen the crying thunder growling at the rubble of our own fetid, fallen Troy.
It's a flicker 'round your mouth
Are you laughing at me or with me?
Underwhelmed and unkempt like chafing against a texturised fashion we watch the utrecht lights ballast and blast against the starry inside of cheap window frames. Canada is a dream now, much like Guam or the Peloponnese, and with that we waver slowly, spit-turned. Another icthyo-ic, landless archipelago. A grease-paint Aleutian chain. Maybe this is cancer, crab-claw-crackling of limb in the water-stained heat. Like I'd eat these sapped-up, commercial vanities loose in the sagging economic drain pipe. Some stem, some pistils firing leaving smoke signals of death to blot outside the sun, plain clothes hung on an Egyptian cotton telegraph line.
Picture this. Halfway between here and five minutes from now I will be nothing more than an ant farming foreign revolutions singing nothing-songs in a nothing-hum bleeding out of nothing-vessels unborn, liberated in no-land of a nothing-sun. I have no photographs from this borken camera. No film negatives fit my funny little lens of humour and manage to see all the color bits outside the UV, the cinder smells rising up in phosphorescence, cracking splash-white Samothrace. These are precious threads growing through the vanilla schwag, just an arch of meerschaum blistering into the stone claw of deep, blue night. And when she drizzles ichor, you may believe in the dirt castles wallowing around your feet, one thousand thousand generations ludely playing with our meek shadows as figures ghosting down meadow leas passing secrets, passing regrets. Cave into this. Never cease to wonder in the hopeless, loveloss life that ever marvel is a sin and each sin a holy joy; candid as we've been there's yet to be seen the crying thunder growling at the rubble of our own fetid, fallen Troy.
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