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Well our dogs get along, but have you noticed how easy |
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evil dialogues of ours come out of wanting, |
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for so long, an easy laughter, to feel guilty for some - |
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Throw us in the oven where the angels fly, |
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They still need to eat |
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She's clean, she keeps a clean house, she can cook alright, |
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But I no longer have meat |
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In the middle of the field at the height of the eclipse, |
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when all that we could see were the fiery whips |
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of that hot-headed god, hot-headed god and wild, |
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perpetually running from his wife and child |
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- I was born in the bottom of a boat, |
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Of glass between the sea and me |
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Upward from the floor they'd float, |
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Bodies from the drowning dream |
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What do you make in the furnace of your chest? |
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The same as she makes in the locket of her breast. |
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Here's where the buds in the coal-chocked tomb go hard, |
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clear and deadly and never ever bloom |
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- There were fifty-four people in the back of a truck, |
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They were only sleeping |
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When we come to pick them up, |
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Safe within our keeping |
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Sixty-eight bullets for my wife and I, |
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They will never be satisfied |
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Strength and purpose fringed by fire, |
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Fire I was born in the bottom of a boat, |
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Of glass between the sea and me |
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Upward from the floor they'd float, |
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Bodies from the drowning dream. |
