I dreamed you were a cosmonaut
of the space between our
And when our mouths are filled with uninvited tongues of
When I was just a little boy
I threw away all
Turnstiles on mezzanine
Jet ways and Dramamine fiends and x-ray machines
You
Bored holes through our tongues
So sing a song about it
Held
he's keeping busy
yeah he's bleeding stones
with his machinations and his
This isn't your song
This isn't your music
How can there be
Five day forecasts bring black tar rains and hellfire
While handpicked
Some people wake up on Monday mornings
Barring maelstroms and red
The finches and sparrows they nest
Watch only what remains