Cloud Eight
Us mole city people gather fruit in lockpicker wicker basketsAnd during sparetime moments we work as carpenters, hitting nails into our caskets
I love you like I never did and slip on a banana skid. Candy lace, your tricky pace
I kick a flowerspread fake whitebread ball of nonsense to the waste and hit my nails through walls and cover the holes with dreamwoven fillpaste
The truth evaluated the worth of staying in mint condition but it drowned in salty waters and became a politician.
Drab and grey concrete let us stay deaf but still listen to the radio.
Old forgotten facts flip onto their backs, obsolete, and kill themselves with knives just to raise the suicide ratio.
You paint your eyes incase you'd cry to show me that you feel my pain
I paint the skies incase I'd fly to show you that your suffering's in vain.
Together we write books with grandure induced pens and ink that sips through time like sins.
Your crimes stay nailed to your back forever.
There's no doubt that you got back baby, but at least try to stay clever.
We'll climb this fireladder.
And stay steady on point and gather these puzzle pieces scattered
Clattered, battered, cluttered, muttered, whispered through time
While this ink slips through and nail your sweet back to your crime
You say time slipped through your hands like sand or a first aid kit
I'll bury your head in the clouds and tell you to get off that bullshit.
Stay at rest, you passed the test.
But if you ever want to come back to this old rainsplitter
I'll wait here by the shockwave, homemade nail-in-coffin-hitter
He's the catastrophemaker that dwells adjacent to his god on the eighth cloud
They'll sit there together and look down on the lowlife selfkill hate crowd.
Cloud eight.
Poetry by lou bergs
Read 621 times
Written on 2005-06-04 at 18:48
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