The Clap

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.

The End

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