we are not clean in the way that clouds pound lightning down on golf carts. we are circumspectral.
we soil by way of true love tossing cankers and spleen-balloons by strobe-light.
we have ginger eyes that scheme the tombs of our docile rictus
and the barbed lush of our offending reconcile.
we are not clean where the filth is excellent, but where the pollution is exquisitely the least meaning.
full of some Life in the Death.

my dearest, my darkest... yes we have no sphere without the cubicle and useless timepiece.
we have no light. save the dapple from a distant blur, upon the surface of a placid lake
of chill fire. a remote scope of reason on the fringe of a boundary
we had no faith in, but a religion to hate with.
we came from the sacred and bled
for the fake **** that drove us
Mazzy.

I'd Fade Into You.
and be some kind of real.
and you'd have to be.