11.28.2004 :::
Underneath It All
A spotted shirt with spotted flower,
Telling us that it's all over,
Wrecking balls, and waterfalls,
A natural crashing down.
Wilting holidays, and unseen
Circumstances.
Man, spirit and the holy ghost, mean
Nothing less than droughts to you.
A famine of the family,
A famine of the flocks,
A simple shortage of passing time,
Lost from broken clocks.
We'll wash our hands, and remember
Michigan, some girl we killed long
Ago, though she killed us in two
Many ways.
That was seventeen years ago,
And we were decades old.
A movie star cameo, attempting
To tell the news program how badly
The trainwreck ended a career.
We do not talk of things that
Have the ever possible likeness
Of ending sadly.
Holding hands with manakins,
Do you feel that familiar spark
Or do you need matches to see
In the daylight of our bedroom?
I know you got lost, when
You visited his home.
If I had a guitar, I'm sure,
It'd be weeping, as my loves
Are out sleeping,
Sleeping with my presidential
Favors, branded on the sides of
Hospital beds.
Michigan was a little girl,
A little girl we aged and raped.
She'll be happy where she is, and
Plentiful will be her bounty.
Darling, we made no mistake,
We just weren't made for this.
::: posted by Matthew at 8:03 AM
