morning sun begins the day
|
mothers child has gone away
|
locked inside the game that they taught him all to play
|
closet city sleeping pretty tired from the day
|
and if he leaves the tiny porch light dim
|
he'll keep the dogs at bay
|
|
snotty little brat he plays
|
never puts his toys away
|
breaks the ones he's used if they don't sparkle anymore
|
dollies in the playhouse kissing
|
all their little heads are missing
|
chop their tiny hands with this thing
|
that's what daddy bought them for
|
|
red and white's turned blue today
|
i laught to dry the tear away
|
|
sitting in my ceilings face
|
this boiling rainbow webbing places
|
smiles soft anger feeling shapes
|
of mouths and hands in sonic scapes
|
fingers spanning psychic burning
|
black sabbath record turning
|
pools of vision, understanding
|
forms absorb to keep from laughing
|
climb the walls, half inside them
|
other side, air is thin there
|
friends inside pull me to them
|
cannot keep from laughing, laughing
|
|
ripples from the portholes making contact
|
center bending circles
|
growing echoes of each other
|
float reflections of this covered consciousness
|
inside this eggshell
|
masterpieces scattered not well spoken
|
yet still undertaken
|
tiny streams of orchestration
|
flow into this fisheye car ride
|
leaning close to catch his good side
|
|
tiny streams of orchestration
|
|
-----------------
|
Tiny Streams
|
| Psychotic Waltz |
