Waving up at You from Under the Ice
Quelle: Spotify
There goes the man with the golden tongue.
There goes a ring with no finger on.
And all the footfalls clash in phase
silencing every move he makes.
The freed dreams shiver through the sky.
Wingbeats bending the edge of light.
And all the painters stepped back and sighed
as all the colours in their paintings died.
Something is tickling the teeth in my lungs.
Death beds are warmer shared.
Bodies move better paired.
It feels like forgetting the words to a song.
Floating down the delta hand-in-hand,
spinning through a ghost-stuffed hinterland.
Waving up at you from under the ice I am
staring up at you from under the ice I am smiling.
There goes the girl with the golden eyes:
glow fading between her thighs.
Shrinking smooth as the newly-dead
between the Rorschach prints in her bed.
Silent footfalls cross the room
battling the poltergeist in her womb.
Windows rattling in their frames,
tapping out a Morse code of memories.
Waving up at you from under the ice I am
staring up at you from under the ice I am smiling.
Must be that logic that helped you both sleep – some mathematical mendicant –
in watching that love drain as slow and as sure as the pump in your lubricant.
Well, that's kind of funny. Ha ha ha. Ha.
How many pale hairy ghosts wriggling out of their clothes just behind that pin?
The cores of apples of eyes all chopped up, rationed out, and distributed?
Yeah, intimacy insurance is paramount.
A black sliver shivered out of Danaë and right in through my spiracles and
bedded down humming something soft and sweet in the branch of my bronchioles.
It sang: “death beds are warmer shared”.
Everyone's okay. No, nothing at all is up.
I think you should stop crying. Your friends are looking at us.
Your fingertips don't feel the same.
The corners of your mouth have changed.
Waving up at me from under the ice you are
staring up at me from under the ice you are... different.
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