but in the claims made by music
posterity is leaking, strangely
tucked in minor constellations
strangely radiant executives
flatterers / amnesiacs / nouns
polite ones, yeh, rushing ideas
in a tame feather bed. but no,
we weren’t talking to you
say ‘iradium’, say ‘1917’
say ‘the books of the future
cracking the brain of the past’
no, don’t say that, its stupid
those people on the moon,
we left em there, plainly singing
anyway, here in the multiplex
in our plastercasts / in in
in our membranes, like, inside
the police computer, that thing
ok / inside our medicines
trickling down our thighs
our crossroads our whistling
inside like cracks / dogs / brains
“last night in a warm feather bed
thats right, the cold cold ground
is eating us / we, cancelled criminals
so warm inside the police etc
fucking set fire to cars etc
little birds, nothing / I mean
No comments:
Post a Comment