| New York has a lump in her throat
|
| She tore up the letters I wrote
|
| Long Island Shore is ravaged today
|
| Stones cry out, what do they say?
|
| Joggers run in lines of Morse code
|
| A beetle’s blood seeped into the road
|
| I store up the fragments & grit
|
| Unkind words, sweet lover’s spit
|
| Wail me down, baby
|
| Wail me down
|
| Fire escapes and dreams of Hades
|
| Wail me down, wail me down
|
| The same energy which created a symphony by Mozart is shared by The Beatles in
|
| making Sgt. |
| Pepper
|
| It is the same intuitive impulse of the imagination
|
| Which in itself is perhaps the closest mankind can ever come to a sense of the
|
| divine
|
| The interesting part in all this is attempting to reconcile those two impulses
|
| The impulse to impersonate and the impulse to invent
|
| It seems as though being an artist involves maintaining that equilibrium
|
| In a way that isn’t a detriment to you or your craft
|
| The caravans of childhood are gone
|
| But August sunlight scorches the lawn
|
| Dharma bluebells blossom in me
|
| Orgastic green vibrates from the trees
|
| City in mind and city in breath
|
| A million pixels manifest death
|
| Champagne sipped from four paper cups
|
| Benzaiten is soon to wake up
|
| Wail me down, baby
|
| Wail me down
|
| Fire escapes and dreams of Hades
|
| Wail me down, wail me down
|
| Wail me down, baby
|
| Wail me down
|
| Fire escapes and dreams of Hades
|
| Wail me down, wail me down |