We learned about a boy in class
In 1st grade, some god granted him wings
But he flew too close to the sun
and died and drowned a terrible death

I meet this boy a few years later
I tell him about my death-wish
Thats at the bottom of my bucket list
And he tosses them all away

He says his wings have been clipped
and that he still thinks hes drowning
in a sea of vast emptiness
And the only burn signs on him
are his eyes
like dying embers that I cant save


he kissed me with abandon
threw water into my heart
it was dried out and torn
you see
his eyes they burned their way down my throat
igniting a light
as he leaves

And I think about that boy
Icarus I believe his name
He flew too close to the burning flame
Like a moth to a light
and singed his broken wings

but they forgot out the part
where the sun melts his wax heart
and he drowns in the deep dark
blue

And I forgot to tell you about the ending
about the salt water in my lungs
that I lurch back profusely
I realize its just the second skin of a little lost zombie boy
This isn't CPR
this is choking on his dead weight passion
drowning on his blue eyed sorrow

Like he choked on the sea.

Simple thoughts for simple minds
Complex sights for the blinds
Blends of attractions and misdirections
Oh, so innocent are the imperfections

One, two
I said one and the lies begun
Two, three
I said two and there it comes the true
Three and nothing more
I said three 'cause I agree
I said nothing more 'cause I don't like the four

           Knock, knock
Are you looking for the key?
Does this make any sence?
Well, life makes no sence!
But you may find the key in the i
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 ­                                                             e of **simple thoughts

Dark hands and Blood legends are
paternal engines stolen from
the memory of women beaten by
mouthfuls of silent lead secreted
from blurred civil wars names burning
from snakes tongue borne into
nameless wine cork
beneath the bloodmyths

The women behind the machines and
morphine webs stroked
numb in theatres

Whose skulls are like stone bowls
Whose hands are like straw
The names of their murdering children
are as old as the names of rivers