| Tongue gone dumb
|
| From disuse at some
|
| Numb young sea-scum's post
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| Bottle after bottle after bottle out sink
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| Cold filled to the cork with uncrackable code
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| So good through the years the knots went
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| That its alphabet was even forgotten
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| Me? |
| I’m head vessel for a fleet of tears
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| Out on my old man’s bones parole
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| Under sail only for a hole to hell to fill
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| With handfuls and handfuls of loose-earned dust
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| Or plug up level really with anything other than us
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| And then to toss a dusty rug over--
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| Lost (lost lost) in translation. |
| Lost
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| To a kingdom of light I wish tonight to fall witness
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| But victim to a spite it might incite sickness
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| I sit in and pretend and through it write hymns:
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| Tight-limbed in white English as my one and trite business
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| Light as a nice fat rice sack boiled in water
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| Out farther than the house of my father
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| Waiting in the sitting room of yet another doctor
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| I taste what little bitter roots this winter has to offer and
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| Without a son or daughter to shoulder the debt
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| Alone with the past and prone to regret
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| Dreamt my death by a knife on a path in Burnet
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| But under the bedspread, I’m younger than dead yet
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| Lost in translation. |
| Lost
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| Even an opal heart hopes all night
|
| In the bright, biting strobe lights
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| And bitter cold, as the living set up
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| To a long white joke told through sun up
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| ‘til the bones and bodies spun around them fold
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| Hopes all night through the old lone fight
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| And the bright vast cold, but there’s no punch-line
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| By this told whack joke for all one’s life is surrounded
|
| ‘til the black hole and bodies spun around it fold |