and the city...
she heard.
Wavering in the moonlight
she shimmied her curse
and I break it across my back
and I vomit up verse.
I sang my song to the city
and the city...
she heard.
Instead of embrace
I swam
like a bird.
Amoungst all the buildings
above all the herd
I sang my song to the city
condemned to live
by my word.







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Try to be there.
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catching that butterfly in that dream of mine..
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"A place to momentarily house all the abstractions."
--
" Tout ce qui n'est pas cru est décoratif. "
(Jean Cocteau.)
--
"A place to momentarily house all the abstractions."
--
" Tout ce qui n'est pas cru est décoratif. "
(Jean Cocteau.)
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