4.26.2007

{drunken psalm.}

the days are lined immaculate
we speak of the dead
and the traditions there in
having wounded all the love there is
made a bed of straw
made a house of sticks

there were ones for which to bask
to lie in front of vast oceans
bleeding we never knew existed
not at all afraid
no lies were ever spoken
no breath ever distilled

to say so calmly things
that don't matter
i know the ways of your workings
like little clocks
your clever machinery
but we are all a memory eventually
and then forgotten.
don't kid yourself anyway
keep singing
and
i'll keep drinking
to the tune
and dreaming.

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