Post by moseley on Apr 15, 2013 21:52:47 GMT -6
Three wolves encircle a tender baby deer,
they drive the mother away and tear at its throat
soon, not even entrails are left
the bones bear witness over time
in a riddle that has no answer
to the finder, or seeker, or inquisitive
Two bombs go off and a thousand newsmen
run swiftly into the bathroom for quick release
this is what they have been waiting for
to tell you, an eight year old boy has died
and yet, somehow you live?
who drove the mother away here
and what is the riddle?
you live, and here you are
it will not be on television
you are too busy talking about
what the heads are talking about
heads you will never connect to a body
and meet in person, most likely,
and to what then, when they bring out
the wise fat man, who philosophises
and loads the grand label gun
with a strong 50/50 rounds
all long strapped and draping
as he lets the trigger fly,
madman this and evil man that
deep conspiracy here and deep conspiracy there
but they forgot the clown
Gayce has gone by, as many others
for this is the coupe du jour
and like a fresh donut from the oven,
only good while its hot
and carefully observe, observe the fat little people
gobbling and devouring it, as if it was the first time
and somehow their virginity and their memory
are made anew, with a power on and a power off
could you run a marathon,
would you ever go there
can you name one street nearby
and did you share something there
or are we connected in a blue screen sea
and like some school of fish
we rubberneck before a school of hammerhead sharks
never more aware of someone else's danger
in lieu of our own peril
but then, our peril will never make the early edition,
our struggle is a song unsung
and what we have to put up with
and what we have to listen to
if we depend upon that blue light box
that blue light special, if you may
was not chosen by us
and in the comfort of safe and convenient observation
we die a slow death day by tittilating day
drip, drap drop
and never once feel the excitement of loosing our wings
just tenderly melted off, in one moment of heat
when we tempted our heights
and had our own great falls...
maybe because we are not Humpty Dumpty
and therefore, our story is somehow, less?
they drive the mother away and tear at its throat
soon, not even entrails are left
the bones bear witness over time
in a riddle that has no answer
to the finder, or seeker, or inquisitive
Two bombs go off and a thousand newsmen
run swiftly into the bathroom for quick release
this is what they have been waiting for
to tell you, an eight year old boy has died
and yet, somehow you live?
who drove the mother away here
and what is the riddle?
you live, and here you are
it will not be on television
you are too busy talking about
what the heads are talking about
heads you will never connect to a body
and meet in person, most likely,
and to what then, when they bring out
the wise fat man, who philosophises
and loads the grand label gun
with a strong 50/50 rounds
all long strapped and draping
as he lets the trigger fly,
madman this and evil man that
deep conspiracy here and deep conspiracy there
but they forgot the clown
Gayce has gone by, as many others
for this is the coupe du jour
and like a fresh donut from the oven,
only good while its hot
and carefully observe, observe the fat little people
gobbling and devouring it, as if it was the first time
and somehow their virginity and their memory
are made anew, with a power on and a power off
could you run a marathon,
would you ever go there
can you name one street nearby
and did you share something there
or are we connected in a blue screen sea
and like some school of fish
we rubberneck before a school of hammerhead sharks
never more aware of someone else's danger
in lieu of our own peril
but then, our peril will never make the early edition,
our struggle is a song unsung
and what we have to put up with
and what we have to listen to
if we depend upon that blue light box
that blue light special, if you may
was not chosen by us
and in the comfort of safe and convenient observation
we die a slow death day by tittilating day
drip, drap drop
and never once feel the excitement of loosing our wings
just tenderly melted off, in one moment of heat
when we tempted our heights
and had our own great falls...
maybe because we are not Humpty Dumpty
and therefore, our story is somehow, less?
