Untitled #12

Blood on your head in catastrophes, icicles,

No one's fed in cycles led by cycle dead

Asked to shine the flag

Loves his distant town

Blue scents like apples bites

And flows through our hands

I said hi to a man who shot his sister

Ran through the station

And jumped in front of a train

Should have looked

Confused to meet you

Well, that's what scissors do to a day

So their smile paves the way

And sand drifts with waves

And clouds my head

Cuz I'm a fortune fella's dead

And I'm the tunes played by the goons

Who ride to fare his wounds

And stole the road the other way

And sold tomorrow to yesterday

And I know the feeling of pushing you

Out of a building

Tiny people pulsating

Hit the sky

But still the ground got up and whacked your face

You expected to fly

Wind up your misfortunes

Sling 'em to a maitre d'

Who wears dead butterflies on his face

And is hoping to grow wings

He really wants to tell you, hey

Give your tears to today

Grind yourself souvenirs into your stolen years

Under your pocket

Your hands getting numb

In and urban blind slide.

Do the avenues that seem to meet defeat you?

Did you ever try to hug the sky behind your head?

I walked forever, so it seemed,

The screen suffered a mean, green ping. Dive

headfirst into a hole in the water.

Dragged side to side like a floating machine

Dove dancing to a fable told in a sea of the disintegration

Crawled to a celebration of dirt and leaves that tastes like wine

Sucked from a hell that digs into the darkness

Full of the fair that my head rides

I slide your kind through a ladder

Hanging on a star

Stray close, so far away from the crime.

A taped-line section of introspection.

To rewind would be to recline.

Hit the pounds underlying

And gently ride on the sign

Tell your problems to Zero

He's got nothing to hide.