All the heather and the madness,
All the heather and the madness,
All the heather and the madness,
Look again. See it again. Look at it, damned dreamer.
Trouble isn’t trouble til
The hem tears and it’s trouble.
Look at me, not quite fit to come in,
But not entirely turned away. I’m the middle of the night
The horses will begin to kick the stable walls, and a cat your family loves
Will tip over an ink well. I’ll still lie in the peace of the grave
While you
Discern kinky butterflies of your own undoing.
The dream that followed served the first one:
Skulls disintegrated beneath the pearly
Teeth of an earthmover.
Meanwhile, gladiolas rose in an effort
For peace.
The world and where you work is substandard,
So everybody
Figures fuck it. One day all the dog fighters
And dogs will die in this eminent domain
Of peace we feel in our bodies.
The swale in which the lively bathe, and the dust in
Which the sedentary sit share a border. But
There, distant past, we worried ourselves breathless
Remembering history’s Lusitania
And grief crept over us like sunset.
You might never have felt such captive culpability for
Your own breath, but I have.
Fewer and far between,
You dropped the house key in the well
To keep it safe.
But later you started to realize you weren’t
The first one with this idea.
That’s the problem with ingenuity. It’s covered
With thorns and it feels like a victory to
Actively avoid them.
But what about the rest of the time.
You look down into the clear and pure looking water,
And you see your own purple eyes in the poison and the key.
The bigger dream has been eclipsed by moonlight
And rotten ass doo wop.
The lesson covers love, old age, and eventually silence. Every
Great song points us back to the indefatigable
Globe of a thing.
Bobby soxers get together around me.
I’m nobody, but they see the cosmos. And
In their heels
And in their malevolent
Let’s let go,
As if decided at a party for everyone.
