i wish i could be buried in the winter with the bones of the old hounds below the broken windowsill in the garden of my old house where we grew sunflowers where i lay through the summers beneath the swaying branches wishing i were someone else home is a hell you keep to yourself home is a hell you carry
Advisers, confidants, close friends, hear my beckoning. So betrothed to the game i'm wondering if you ears are turned red from my constant berating of facts and formula from my phone, from my bed. From a far away place, listing all the times I've spit last week they're all-seeing bloodhounds trapping me in beloved rat race
..."To Jimmy Turner, Kathy Lintz and Peter Bensinger, advisers, confidants and close friends, thank you." - an excerpt from Ryne Sandberg's induction to the hall of fame
Stinging you with her electric eyes This is your turn to lose the prize For you shall burn For you shall never return Your heart can not depart the roses, you lay a bed Thorns shall ***** you but this is not your moment to cry This is not your moment to scream why For she is taking the steps you can not reach Reach for your despair, scream this just isn't fair But she shall not turn around Bury yourself deep in the ground For she is unleashing her round of the hounds
bewildered, yet nothing. Venus smiles. blank they proclaim under a mendacious house. collapsed panes there are, and floating hounds. are they floating? eyes rob us, and appearances are kleptomaniac. so why do they smile their pale yellow teeth to us? and cry tears of metal? o' abused face! scarred by night's cloak. make us grave men today, so we may wrap them in a blanket of glitter tomorrow. end their metallic cries! end their loud, loud voices! so silence may harmonize their weeping rooms cluttered with floating hounds.