Threadbare bones and thoughts like dirt stuck to a windowsill
No tyrant will have BAM! strong enough for that mess
Best to toss it out the window, but that’s been done to death,
Mine soul cannot abide the idea, into mine, then,
Wait … No, no, carry on, the cart can’t get off those tracks
Those dancers won’t break a rhythm, bye
Will get repeated two more times in the echo
And art still straggles in the rear breathing through its mouth loudly
Waiting for a weaker body to be left to its paint splattered claws
It wasn’t his idea but everyone saw it and pretended it was
Damn distracting colors and ugly pictures
Why aren’t they, yes the distant they we’re not a part of, fixing it?
Taking it to some sort of education that will make it know better
Like a kid who falls from his bicycle is aware
That riding with a ten foot beige ice cream made of,
The guy in the van said ‘dreams and Percocet,’
But its just berry caramel vanilla wrapped around an enormous cookie
Knows that that isn’t a great idea anymore, once, maybe
Ice cream melts and won’t break a fall
And lit always comes last when the murk of distance settles in for a sit
Staring at the wall as if there was something interesting on it
That wasn’t the voodoo mask of a Camberwell queen
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