Burnside Project An Easy Sell
The crowd throws their hands up proud. Something’s
lurking underground, here they come, come,we run, run.
Graphically depict a scene, Affably be sick and mean, we
sing, sing, sing, sing. Swing across a deep ravine, Jump
to flashpoints we have seen, Swing over a sprawling
scene, Jump into each other’s dreams. Disaster looms from
door to door, extracting data from the floor, what’s it
for, for, 4, 3, to her crooked digits and bent nails,
reaching over blownback sails, we fail, fail, fail fail.
Smoldered minutes burn into hours, Candyflips like
windblown flowers, Just as quickly as it was ours, now
defrocked of all our powers. Actions speak louder than
words, but a picture won’t be heard, so we shout, shout,
out loud, loud. Young philosophers have left the womb,
Socrates is still in bloom, they read, they think, they
speak, we blink. Uncertain in this quaking bed, from all
the mysteries we’ve been fed, and all the rights that
we’ve been read, the populace remains misled. Our random
access memory fails, our random access beached like
whales, this gale, gale is stale, stale. Something always
rings a bell, something’s are an easy sell, show and
tell, tell, tell. Tell them put literary thoughts aside,
you’ll never execute the dial, you’ll never resist the
hive, you’ll never take me alive.
