The current that makes the ocean makes the marrow of my bones makes my eyes slate with anger blue with mystery green with shock or inspiration or confused with love or dull silver with the sound of voices of the choir pushing against fluid temples, pulling up the liquid nails. If I unlock my sequined wrists it is not a bargain or a cry for help it is just an end like and unlike many others just a bag of bones and ocean returning to balance the tides.
Paper cutouts against a man's umbrella fluorescent against the musk of night and dull to the heart. Give me the ribbon I have come for and I will fish from your eyes sentiment and leave reason to do its hard job.
After all the rest of the chairs are established and she has digested language like sugar cane, I have so little left to break, and throw against the wall -- and so I gather what I have left with my ears and it plays -- a broken cadence a vulgar waltz.
One Lighthouse for the children's ward One Lighthouse for the for the woman under the hospital One Lighthouse for the helicopters, marines, doctors One Lighthouse is all we need for the cracked skull of the city On the cloudless horizon