Wednesday, December 31, 2008


Time, all the long red lines,
that take control of all the smoke-like streams
that flow into your dreams,
that big blue open sea that can't be crossed,
that can't be climbed, just born between,
oh the two white lines, distant gods and faded signs,
of all those blinking lites, you had to pick the one tonight

Holes, dug by little moles,
angry jealous spies, got telephones for eyes,
come to you as friends,
all those endless ends that can't be tied,
oh they make me laugh, and always make me cry,
until they drop like flies, and sink like polished stones,
of all the stones I throw, how does that old song go?
how does that old song go?

Bands, those funny little plans that never work quite right

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