Can’t figure out how we got here,
living on decay.
The 7 words left on paper
will disconnect the day.
and you want
a new want
and you want
anything that’s clear

And it’s all around us
as ghosted machines.
Would the real be just silent
if there’s a hole in the key?
At the bar in the basement
for an hour-glass of tea.
Our love is a violent
constant space in between.

And the taste has got a texture,
smoke has not a sound.
The fabric that was fixed here
inherent in the ground.

And it’s all around us
as ghosted machines.
Would the real be just silent
if there’s a hole in the key?
At the bar in the basement
for an hour-glass of tea.
Our love is a violent
constant space in between.
And as much as I’d like to
believe there’s a truth
about our illusion, well
I’ve come to conclude:
There’s just nothing beyond it
the mind can perceive
except for the pictures in
the space in between.