Lyrics Apt. A - cLOUDDEAD

Apt. A

Star fish
Alive
And liquid on the lighthouse stoop
Saturday morning four window spotlight
Turns the stained sunday bed sheets
And back again in the end
Speaking voices
Swapped the specs
The keen eye titles litter
And after all I found it
Circle K (Boomerang)
Shitty coffee
Hunger pangs
(Boomerang)
To beans
The guy’s on the corner with a broken can opener
Dirt shots
Plastic flower print
Poet headed bore
Bore the messenger practice
A tactile cactus (shh…)
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
'Til 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 rind 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 supper
C’est la vie
Tchotchke
Bags packed in boxes
Our thrones in the dumpster
Bon voyage
Red
Pipe
33 E McMillan St
Apt