I’m born to the city and I’ll damn well die here
oh, cowardly dreams of my father’s promise land: ten bone thin hounds ten steps in the pavement before mother earth cracks. see but beauty is beauty but beauty is not beauty to the word. it’s the watchman’s wife, his watch, his gun; love, all packaged and processed and good. it’s the horizon, swelling orange banner around the watchtower. it’s the prisoners and the stars above the consciences they mined. heaven serenades me in the sunlight but in smokestacks, baby, it loves me down
while i drown in the yellow of futures built upon the cold knees of a figure of bold brass and concrete solid architecture to hold me captive and listening to the rhythm of days spent credit unpaid for goods wasted decaying while bent eyes avoid empty stares at the sores that spill across perception, visions tinted grey, the shades of industry and hazy mist that settles upon this organism every morning, swallows the innocence of hearts and lives turned in and over.
Collab: angleafterangle in plain text, onnothingandeverything in italics.
