the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Friday, May 27, 2011


Eastbound concrete from god-knows-where,
A tangle of freeways, a tangle of golden hair
From birth in a city intended for angels
Where I saw the devil in a cardigan,
I saw airplanes land and depart again,
I saw my hand smear blood like a lefthand pen.
But the sun now whispers on the nape of my neck
And the radio fills silence where any is left,
We're breathing now, all the city and smog
That makes your golden hair grow a little bit bolder
And shakes this old world that I've left on my shoulders.

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