There are no red painted rooms At this point
And adding four to ten to white wash age
available by the burnt out terrestrial of four
Surveyed by kites Of the forewarned and foreword
With steady succession of no comments
As fever takes the reins towards first regressional steps
I can’t hold or feel my legs as you run and fly
As I bring myself to look at the broken sax paw.
But no regrets as I walk across locking pin
at water whispering Junction and dive in
as Meditation of a mind that’s ready to go
can you see some of this wreath hasn’t been rewound
Tapes being laid down to don’t breath
a stitched bourbon word.
That I haven’t heard of as a black box of recordings
is opened up to be replayed and spun
As people rise recognitive friends names are abducted
by the architects of rising ladders as a back drop
To aid induction into a roll call stage school.
As learners start a library climb on the heels
Of Greeks expression discography dancing to
A spectrums of chromed Dio hills linguism
And meeting puffing billy on his Island bed
surrounded by the hollow points and silo eyes
As orange boxes are raised in my sleep.
That Became a X Ray developing crime scene
Show of Atlantic journals of Jane
Coat of arms exchange and make a ladybird
Pass of toga party girls that bee line and laugh
as they climb into dark glass rides to their last dance
Distant western Pergola of weather stations
Raising Sprung Barr lines now arrowing a higher descent
as we stand by to watch their unstoppable ride.