The days are always born anew,
out of fleeting dark
and up in the clouds
a big man will sit
waiting to take us back.
So we love and stuff
every available hole
with every available thing
the chorus is all we want
out of the chaos of music, the rest will go.
For the sea rages to the beat of drums
and a symphony audience wails in lit darkness
legs tightly crossed, their chins high,
slight to the left
teeth as lucid as milk
and eyes as vivid as any lead paint
a clean asylum waits up on the hill
shaded by trees and dreams
shackles to be unbound
and withering hope
now to the size of atoms
If only plutonium was sold in glass bottles.
If only we could shoot time into the veins, mainline.
Maybe then the welcoming of ghosts would go as planned
and the tambourine shakes and plays its hum
Now, restless and with the sense of the uneasy
the red curtain pulled
hands are scared to rest for a moment
as the beat drones on
the people who buy the cars
are the same ones riding on the stars
cautious and rowdy and loved and
pleased and thumped and trumped and lose
after the chorus,
the audience looks the same as before
and the white walls are as comforting as ever,
at least for now.