rescinded wind, maybe a fortune at that end, my ravaged miscellany
pristine as the first falls, the kickback mist, heaven's hand in laser light
in the dark show, forestalled shadows, just a few days sowing the meadow
leave it to a limited air supply, and maybe, the organ lungs will go free
the colliding spoons of security, an anthem hymn of false serenity

the machine must slow, we must succeed, there is no option
the engine block in want of lube, the world in want of petrol
the guide says this was the spot where the world's oil dried
the clock says this was the time and the place that we died

I have a funny way of showing it
but the bookends justify the magazines
humidity of southern battlegrounds
publications sold in sad cafes
now there isn't enough cash
to while away the days
worrying about the next conquest
and I'm so bad with math
I'm afraid you'll have to find another way
to take back what belongs at rest