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Apt. A (2)

This song is by cLOUDDEAD and appears on the album Clouddead (2001).

Star fish, alive, and liquid on the lighthouse stoop.

The Saturday morning four window spotlight
Turns into stained Sunday bed sheets,
And back again in the end.

Speaking voices, swapped for specs, the keen eye titles litter,
"After all I found it."

Circle k, shitty coffee, (boomerang) hunger pangs to beans,
(Boomerang) the guy's on the corner with a broken can opener.

Dirt shirts, plastic flower print,
Poet headed for bore, the messenger practice.

A tactile cactus.

Leaders in the making us drought system.

No lattice around the naked edges of a trash heap art piece,
I raise my eyebrows when somebody calls me clothed.

Hands off, better to feel our width.
Trash heaple collecting ex-presidents next door,
Lodging the lump in our throats.

God's daughter's built for speed, lives on the fourth floor,
We're in the basement.

Gas main office, tenants speaking.

Where the marionettes hang waiting for wet hands
To stiffen the limp pen.

Fuck the fashion show.

Crumbled bubble limbo's window trapped.

Trim brushes, paint buckets, second story roof tag,
What it means to have an artist plug a black hole with mortar.
Close circuit walk home, broken brick and lease is up,
House is open, keyhole empty.
Meet you out in California, rucksack, sleeping on nude beaches,
Performing for our dimes and nickels.
Sewerside on street corners speaking out our piece,
We'll till the land with a pulled up parking meter
Till the soil churns to wind.
A stretched taffy howl to peacock plume our haircuts,
The painted pigeon dessert's a crust of bread.
The former melon's rhine and open empty shell,
Which ones get the poets' bedrooms?
And kicks the pebble loose, a sylvan lot, its painted rail,
A horde of cricket carcasses.

The same old hat.

Under open sky sound.

Big difference.

Listen to my head.

Twin prince dilutions, skip their last super, caislavie, chachkees.
Bags packed in boxes our thrones in the dumpster, bonvoyage.



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