The Million Boys


The real madness is found
At the point between concrete and glorious elevator
I am the crowd pulling the hair
Of the farmer, the rioting loner, the number one
It is trying at times, it is bloody, and lonely
I have to give up in the sky's light
I, however, still open up for the limitless unknown
I have to look at the million boys
I have to ask the proper questions
Wonder at the words and worlds and dreams and seams
But there are no trains left
There are no machines running
Cocaine blues in the colour of the cloud
High rise feline way in the movement of the day
And I drive my car to the shore
Over the flowers that we planted
Over the gardens of our grandfathers
But we have no remorse left
Only blood that is charged with lust and loss and mining rights
So the sand becomes our carpet
And we discuss the Cimbrian War
Why so many died with one word on their lips
So many didn't think to use the guns at their hips
The planes all run steady
The crucifix is on time
Two hands in the shop window
Down high street where the crowd is
And I must look at them
Cotton pants filled with fleshy legs
Hairy chests and glazed looks and smiles cracking faces
I throw lost mystery on them
There is no repetition for them to grasp
They strip naked and jump, higher and higher
Their flabby stomachs bouncing
I take photographs for my tunnel gallery
Where only the pelicans gain entry
I feel joy...


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