|
The windows are ringing |
|
shaking Night-nites for angels |
|
rattling throats up and down on a beam. |
|
Cooling the hearts |
|
cooling the plasma |
|
keeping ice junkies packed hard on a seam |
|
The other side of a prowler |
|
the dead still search the living. |
|
At least there we did not not fail. |
|
Coming to in the overcast |
|
tracks are still flowing. |
|
At least there he does not wail. |
|
Psalms of your hands |
|
sung into the lateness |
|
move a circuit on the white |
|
and he can't feel a thing. |
|
Gone always alone to all you are never |
|
he climbs into your mouth |
|
when the windows ring. |
|
The windows are ringing |
|
shaking dead men for angels |
|
Hissing brains boiling up |
|
press't to the bone |
|
uncoils the wire whole night long |
|
bumping out thru the eye in knots. |
|
Sweet hot numbers |
|
sweet hots |
|
bumping out thru the eye |
|
on a wire of knots. |
|
Sweet hot numbers |
|
sweet hots |
|
bumping out thru the eye |
|
on a wire of knots. |
|
Psalms of your hands |
|
sung into the lateness |
|
move a circuit on the white |
|
and he can't feel a thing. |
|
Gone always alone to all you are never |
|
he climbs into your mouth |
|
when the windows ring. |
