|
morning sun begins the day |
|
mothers child has gone away |
|
locked inside the game that they taught him all to play |
|
closet city sleeping pretty tired from the day |
|
and if he leaves the tiny porch light dim |
|
he'll keep the dogs at bay |
|
snotty little brat he plays |
|
never puts his toys away |
|
breaks the ones he's used if they don't sparkle anymore |
|
dollies in the playhouse kissing |
|
all their little heads are missing |
|
chop their tiny hands with this thing |
|
that's what daddy bought them for |
|
red and white's turned blue today |
|
i laught to dry the tear away |
|
sitting in my ceilings face |
|
this boiling rainbow webbing places |
|
smiles soft anger feeling shapes |
|
of mouths and hands in sonic scapes |
|
fingers spanning psychic burning |
|
black sabbath record turning |
|
pools of vision, understanding |
|
forms absorb to keep from laughing |
|
climb the walls, half inside them |
|
other side, air is thin there |
|
friends inside pull me to them |
|
cannot keep from laughing, laughing |
|
ripples from the portholes making contact |
|
center bending circles |
|
growing echoes of each other |
|
float reflections of this covered consciousness |
|
inside this eggshell |
|
masterpieces scattered not well spoken |
|
yet still undertaken |
|
tiny streams of orchestration |
|
flow into this fisheye car ride |
|
leaning close to catch his good side |
|
tiny streams of orchestration |
