the wall quietly bleeds
the conversations of next doors
distorted masses
five loose angry souls
sound like a choir of the dammed
milling about on the wood floor
of their own personal private version of hell

she interrupts the process
of your steam engine thought pattern
seeking the real depth of a summer day
looking for the bottom of cup of coffee
in all the midnights you've wandered through
naked to the truth
naked to the waiting for revelation of the greater being
but she cant get past the church she sees in your eye
inside your own version you are
overrun with fast thoughts
little ones that are like nervousness fingers
they get into every crevasse of your vanilla mind
push them away but they sneak
round and come from the sides
come at you from the depths of her eyes
at you from the heights of
the big boss mans neatly pressed carpet
at you from the Red Barron's little plane
that used to hang from your brothers ceiling
all thouse years ago

to her truth is a defense of last resort
to make normality reduced into a *******
the beauty of half measures
to be the nirvana of her lifestyle is to be a moral *****
whatever treasure of slogans sells the best today
is the one she spreads with her abnormal disease of love
her spiritual life is governed by popularity and brutality
she has told the same lies for so long she even believes them
she is what she is
not quite death incarnate
but an animal of the same fur
a face holding the same memories
a brother to the madness inside her
the truth is never far away
but it might as well
be lost in the mountains of the moon