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The lids on Streetlights peel back to reveal row upon row of bulging black bird eye |
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All gorged out toward you like exotic zoo snakes heaped up |
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on fiberglass rocks, fat with farmed rats coaxed down their throat |
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below them in their brights, |
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tilt finished arrows beached up on thin tin signs. |
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and where its corrugated stem injects into cement |
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there is a deep fried breastbone, |
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popping hard half ate on a rich red curb |
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(x4) |
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All at once |
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The next morning everything begins again |
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Over a walk past a few balloons tied to a lovesick car-salesman's wrist. |
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You press on |
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A soft bicycle wheel chained up |
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behind a savage looking pair of women's dress shoes, |
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abandoned to the left of a tire tread pressed dead pigeon |
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lain askew in more rich rose colored gutter |
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There there |
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Temperature taking your skin |
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Tinged city wind catching air on your pleasantly imperfect and c-section shaped skull |
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For once forget your headed to the mailbox |
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to drop more finished bills down to its gut |
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Even though for all you know that's about as far as those things ever go |
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(x2) |
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As sad as it is so, (x2) |
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Kids today will never wear the perfect cape of clean air |
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Nor one true brand new brazier of sheer luck |
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or does someone out there, does someone out there still expect that |
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the way a moth gives freely of itself unto the bulb |
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they will not learn their lesson from a teachers copy |
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of a blackened lung, hung in the classroom, on the coat rack |
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Or left dripping in the closet during math minutes passing |
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nor from a nice new globe made of gold, cast in the shape of a half eaten apple |
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Not until |
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The sun is on a stick |
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The moon hung on a hook |
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(x2) |
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Desperate times call for step by step schematics of the human dive (x6) |
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Fool. Not |
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Gum up bubble flavored up sitting on a more popular mechanics of a fifty foot flesh. Not |
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Watch a thieving wallet going over the counter of botox. With your arms a great cops. Not |
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Not god. Not done. So booking the atomic clock. Not sea loud to clear. Over a dozen boxed cars. Keys to the city |
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You're rap rock. Not blood. Not gold bonded. Not |
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You serious precarious, but with no snots |
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And a sunset interjects |
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Donating the kind of red you'd only see in stores |
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Affording yourself a bit more clarity, some singular mood polarity |
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And if you could, you'd have a close friend |
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drive you off into the sinking pinks |
