flying cars,
shooting stars?
they're all secrets
we still can't see.
Don't want to talk of the
divided states,
insurance rates,
all of us tossed
to the fates.
the paradigm is smoothly polished,
engrained in the strains
of our dark undergrowth,
apron strings which act
as strangler figs
close out the last of
the light and the fight
(of blue eyes, stale pints
Irish jigs and queer delights).
Things are perhaps fucked up
and slightly perfect in their own ways,
being used for that which they were designed
to misalign the patterns of the spring.
Lights on strings, hewn logs in a straight line
dances with in lux and stretches away from the trees
like a darkness out here, it goes for miles
from the warm reds of autumn to
the sunburst finish.
Frightened again by a new day
wheels spinning but faster and in less control
despite the centrifugal forces pushing
down the weight of the wet clay
From Brilliant and perfect
to broken and chaos and disorder
and down it all rains.
scared and skipped and tripped up, careless.
my courage fails, sails, nails it down,
yet is full of fear.
You cannot forget
how we captured it.
your head spins
the day we met
don't stop talking about chance.
Now it is so,
we know secrets.
as cars shoot by
we fly by stars.
