Whitebled

Black fly, white tile, bleed oil, red tile

I've been confused, and do not grieve to admit it

Those who are so true convinced are standing on a leaking ship

Concealed, by some hidebound definition,

The sand we're standing on will show us,

That it’s not some rock that owns us

Now, endless summer dries you up, underneath the browning sky

You live where birds don’t chose to fly

But I've seen, the rat among the dreams

The fly in every ointment and the crude oil in the cream

Do not write lyrics for this song

I'd rather swing a sword of dust than blow the golden horn

"Where did we go wrong?"

A cloud may wear a lining but still it holds a storm

And I know that nothing good is going to happen but I don't know when.

The brown dove takes it's flight

From the hotel parking lot

The others get bled white,

And tagged when they are caught

Behind the color chrome house

The calf is whining low

Like a drunk who makes his crying

Among the church’s silent rows

Crossmaker wordtaker say

Why not that heavy other way

Out from the eye in a ray

Why not that heavy other way

Whitebled

Sensitive subject

No-one’s trying

Any other way

Whitebled

Men cost money

Mausoleum

Heavier the tomb

When I spit out the medicine, of the cross and weary way

And the fog lifts up and leaves us, we notice that it’s day

And every worn-in delusion is naked and exposed

The terrified myth is crownless, groundless, only feeling cold