Even In Blackouts The Writer
Comfort is what we need, my baby
Listen and I'll show you how.
The side walk's the carpet
And the Bushes are the wall
Through the sky last night
he covers his young
The cold blocks the cold wind whistling through
Where the Sidewalk's the carpet
And the busshes are the walls
The moons his lamp
And the world's his door
His eyes bleed salt crystal ice
And his hair, deeply swooshing sliced paper cuts
Where the sidewalk's the carpet
And the bushes are the walls
The moon's his lamp
And the world's his door
His young sleeping firmly inbetween
kneecaps and pockets
Dreams of days resembling life
Where the sidewalk's the carpet
and the bushes are the walls
The moon's his lamp
And the world's his door
Kneecaps and pockets, dreams of days resembling life
"In the morning to the sound of worldfull news,
slapping portraits he arises with his feet to attack.
Like comaraco worms, needles with teeth, he takes his
young into his hand, and folds into a little square and
slips it in his sock. He puts it in his sock."
It fits into his sock?
"Oh yeah."
He then walks away
With one foot
Tapping the pavement
And the other
kicking up mulch
