The Tired Metamorphosis
I want to be the new fly of the season
The great swarm of insects shipwrecked in the mud
Wet wings dragging in the drying light
Aeroplane wings reflecting letters and numbers
We will never decipher what we can not uncover
And the smoke becomes a road for the ghost to walk
Concrete cities below water undrinkable
Homo embraced in the curves of the desired man
Jackets hanging over window panes
Light shafts burning through the needle holes against the paint
Every bar holds the rat that chews with teeth blunt
Claws holding dust and warm history
And minor stories are told by the man who pulls the levers
You should have bought your ticket when they were cheap
You should have seen the show when it was first out
Now everyone is losing their mind under the old leather seats
Everyone is tying their laces against the brick posts
The grubs are crawling up the tree's broad leaves, they are willing
The actors are all running from their future war, it is Franco, it is Kafka
Change is a question that no amount of technology can win
Cymbals chime in the hall and great birds steal them for their nests
Alone the student runs his finger along the pollen on the ground
He hears the singer of his maiden neighbour
He wonders if she is alone, dry and dying
Like an abandoned queen, a starving soldier
He feels himself growing as he moves against the bark
The shudder throws the pollen down, the yellow chalk, the song in the pine sings
The Wind amongst the green needles
There are no more wasps in the cellar's mortar
There are no more caged birds to mimic the cries of the smashed and stung
Fine points piercing the silken skin of the senior politician
We built hexagonal homes like the muddy warriors
We watched and tried to tame the economic journalists
Those bugs in the mud, born from the cylinder ovals
Born from the distorted quarter notes that are played over and lauded
34 minutes to go and we should have bought our tickets when they were cheap
The great swarm of insects shipwrecked in the mud
Wet wings dragging in the drying light
Aeroplane wings reflecting letters and numbers
We will never decipher what we can not uncover
And the smoke becomes a road for the ghost to walk
Concrete cities below water undrinkable
Homo embraced in the curves of the desired man
Jackets hanging over window panes
Light shafts burning through the needle holes against the paint
Every bar holds the rat that chews with teeth blunt
Claws holding dust and warm history
And minor stories are told by the man who pulls the levers
You should have bought your ticket when they were cheap
You should have seen the show when it was first out
Now everyone is losing their mind under the old leather seats
Everyone is tying their laces against the brick posts
The grubs are crawling up the tree's broad leaves, they are willing
The actors are all running from their future war, it is Franco, it is Kafka
Change is a question that no amount of technology can win
Cymbals chime in the hall and great birds steal them for their nests
Alone the student runs his finger along the pollen on the ground
He hears the singer of his maiden neighbour
He wonders if she is alone, dry and dying
Like an abandoned queen, a starving soldier
He feels himself growing as he moves against the bark
The shudder throws the pollen down, the yellow chalk, the song in the pine sings
The Wind amongst the green needles
There are no more wasps in the cellar's mortar
There are no more caged birds to mimic the cries of the smashed and stung
Fine points piercing the silken skin of the senior politician
We built hexagonal homes like the muddy warriors
We watched and tried to tame the economic journalists
Those bugs in the mud, born from the cylinder ovals
Born from the distorted quarter notes that are played over and lauded
34 minutes to go and we should have bought our tickets when they were cheap
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