Parson Thru III
By Parson Thru
The place approaches and almost everything that I am ceases to be The groundedness of me in the earth gives itself up and the familiar madness creeps in The differences are subtle
Re-written: Perfect childhood morning Unreachable but never lost Pristine light of infancy Glimpsed in half-awakeness
I wouldn't say I was a fake exactly, but I don't have a catalogue or great literary lineage deposited in my depleting grey matter.
There's the moon Pale whiteprecise halfmoonshaped ghost of itself against a fragile sky Regular and real among the fakingclouds slashed by soonforgotten trips to america
The wild nights bring the clearest thoughts And I wake up with a start as I recall the box I threw away as I emptied out your shed
From the head to the belly or the belly to the head? Is it something I ate or something that you said?
They say that blood's more thick, but water runs more clear and doesn't leave a stain
My head is tired and crammed My body tense My fingers will not run along the strings Landing on each pavement crack Muscles overrun by a thousand raging thoughts It's cold
Oops! There I go ma head's a-spinning Felt life going well but seems that I ain't winning Watch those pretty fairy tales involving women who slide you down a snake to the beginning
So, anyway, I sat down and put in my earphones and that was good because I couldn't hear the bitching anymore. Dylan was providing palliative care.
Everything is old The world has a tiredness about it Like Fukayama was right And everything has been done
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