|
Boys run like water from the barrow to the trough |
|
They'll never stop their running |
|
Gunning for their brothers |
|
This house is a hostel |
|
It is peaceful but it's always emptying |
|
Boys all want to be someone |
|
Haven't you heard? |
|
I am a flightless bird |
|
I am a liar, feeding the facts to false fires |
|
Pathos is born, born out of bullshit |
|
In formal attire |
|
But I'll score your string ensemble |
|
I saw my son at seventeen |
|
The shutters made projections on his naked frame |
|
But now at twenty-five, he simply cannot stay away |
|
From the ketamine |
|
With make-up on his sores |
|
He spends an hour a day composing his own eulogy |
|
Sometimes he sends me letters |
|
But they're mostly garbled phrases and apologies |
|
Haven't you heard? |
|
I am a flightless bird, |
|
I am a liar |
|
Feeding the facts to false fires |
|
Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire |
|
Append a Bulgarian children's choir |