>> The view from up here (mp3)
I see stacks of rust-beat, old, snowy-flowing cars, in a silken, milky, flurry of way-out broken stars, and the sound is rich--an open ditch--of high-shy, mean guitars, while the town folk drank--with stouty swank--the lot of night-stand bars.
But a thing not to we do--when it was said, for all of the new--obscuring rennovation's view, and using innovation's hue; sky high, a catch-a-tory, few-blue stew to do--was custom made, the knowledge blade, then tailored-true one clue.
An oxygen fight, while logiticians unite, and tell us what it is not to do, while the dogs chased the stick, and our fingers would flick, a friendly, warm-healthy, "fuck you!". So the sun rose the East, and the eyes would just feast, 'cos the view from up here was real Massive.
Buds broke the dew, while sunlight shone through, unlike life from down there, still just passive. The thuds of adieu, sprinkling tasks of untrue, break and cover every inch of life's fate.
There's no place to hide, if a teller told and lied; some say a resting-rising tide, has gone out, up, and high, bent over in the snow, with a deep haul to hoe, splits a never-ending view, out high on the divide. |
