Can't ya really know anything,
like someone crouched down
low in golden weeds, baked to crispy tasteless
nutritionless poking daggers by the winter sun,
high in the air and staggered
thinking hills roll by toward
whats after us, in the bleary darkness
that, saddened and empty, plays those
very few chords that we all know?
Tap our feet to unconsciously
moving on with dirt and mud and whichever whatever else
anyway marking frayed jeans, really frayed in the mind
without a designer getting fat,
who hears the chords, pretends avoids taps
loves despairs smiles seeing it's all meaningless
All of it fake, and he dies dies for real, not for the cameras
and he forgets about tearing clothes, forgets wearing them blind
tap ignores the calls smiling frays
oooooh can't we ever lying know?
No comments:
Post a Comment