Time's ticking like it does and that sentinel on the wall
Gives me moment by moment the pace to the fall
And the dominoes keep kicking like a line of Rockettes—
“What is the time? Mary Ann, check all your pockets!”
But the pockets are empty and so too are those bones
Then when push comes to shove, every tile intones
“Here are we spotted cards: all blank cogs laid to rest
You’ve been laid in sepulchers. Now come lay with the best”
But the pillow’s more tempting and heads will recline
On soft, swaddled goose down; the best rest is mine.

Tie up your newspapers
Throw down your caps
Settle in deep
For the rat-tatat-taps

Think awhile, drink awhile
Leave your brain in the sink awhile
For a while it will be before I’m back again
And a while you must stay, apart from me, my friend

So tie up your newspapers
Throw down your caps
Settle in deep
For the rat-tatat-taps

Yet again it begins as the puppet master spins
Tangling the strings and holding up the wings
And down go the angels into hell
Down goes the bucket in the well
But the water comes up empty
And the bucket sinks down dry
And as sure as skies are falling
There's a needle in my eye

Did you try to tell me something
When you floated out to space?
Did you try to let me know
That the void was in my place?
That the emptiness consumed you
And you consumed my heart
And when you found it lacking
You blew us both apart

Yet again it will end and we greet again as friends
But the knots that were tied are just tangles multiplied
And the complication's ever
Ever present, ever on
Ever present, ever on
Ever on and on and on

Did you try to tell me something
When you sank down in the deep?
Did you try to let me know
That I was making you lose sleep?
Then those sleepless nights defined us
And defined we could not stay
And when that door was opened
You walked out and away

Yet again it begins as the wooden puppet spins
Held up fast and held up tight casting shadows in the light
And down goes the curtain on the stage
Fistfuls of hair fly in a rage
But the show reviews successful
So the master restful lies
And the blazing wooden puppet
Feeds the fire as it dies

Did you try to tell me something?
For the hour's now grown late
And the something that you said
Is now lost and out of date
Did you try to tell me something?
I didn't listen, couldn't hear
All the words from puppet masters
Were crammed deep into my ear

Did you try to tell me. . .?

Did you try to tell me. . .?

Up and down the alleyway
The street art reeks of ****
And up and down I walk until
I cast my eyes on this:

An image of a girl aflame
Balloons in either hand
The rosy-red wrapped 'round her wrist
Her eyes fixed on the sand.

And painted waves lap painted feet
Extinguishing their flame
But water works with cyclic rolls
And feet in flame remain.

The latex melts and burns her hands
Her hair curls up in ash
And I walk on, untouched, unscathed
For art will fade and pass.

I've got an eclectic taste; everyone who knows me better than they can throw me will say it
(Those that can throw me better than they know me are giants
And they aren't allowed to exist too near me;
I'm a Halfling.)
But my tastes are eclectic, and my album choices range from "Ten$ion" to "Merry Christmas"
My palate asks for potato salad, then daiquiri ice
I love the way Trainspotting wraps up nicely and how T2 comes along and undoes the work of the previous film-- ruins it
And then I love The Grand Budapest Hotel for being well-kept and neat
I have a range of tastes that don't align, that don't make sense.
But with you, my eccentricity ends and my choice is flavorful.
I choose you and you are not an eclectic choice.
You are the sense in my senseless choosing, the centre of the fractal whose patterns are too convoluted
You tie me all together in a nice, neat bow and here I am
Standing on a mound 5/2 of a year thick.

A thousand drops of madness
like rain fall from the sky
A thousand seeds beneath them
sprout forth, and by and by
The sprouts beneath the rainfall
look more and more like you
'til the rain I know is timeless
and the picture just us two
The painted brush of Rembrandt
in death cemented be
Still he captures in this portrait
a picture of us three
A thousand drops of madness
A soil of willing faith
And you and me, close as can be
Our quest that of a Wraith

There are faces in the ocean; there are bodies in the sea,
There are bloated, driftwood-corpses that float up and welcome me.
To the seashore where I've found them, to my bed back where I sleep,
I dream of sky-blue faces as they swirl down in the deep.