Travelling at the speed of thought

This is a time of meaningful reflection,

Coloured by transmission,

Reports gathered,
Lamentations expelled,
Natural gas,
Dust on ice,
An abyss,
Long filled,
A street lantern disregarded,
And surrounded,
By a cast of mourners,
Trite,
Quite rightly,
Bathed in the rays of an awestruck guardian,
Lost ways,
Paving slabs,
And stabs in the back,
Violent trills of colour,


And a whisper,


Able to sense its own volume,
And a strata,

Unbound by sedimentary logic,

Recorded,
And according to present sense,
Defunct,

An uncertain wish,
Gripped in a fist,
And clapped to a chest,
Within which,
All collides and will collide,

And the turn of the world will sing,
Upon expulsions,
Both mercurial,
Meteoric,
And necessary,
Read in the wind,
Stamped in the dust,
Lived in the mass,
Thrust into the brows of the dreams of dreamers,
Crushing that which in being crushed,
Creates.

And we sing...
Into a sky obscured by right angles,
Torn apart with our notes.

[Prinzregentenstraße 66, 23.08.09, dedicated to M.D. and W.B.]

Strike a pose,
And unload,
Breathe hard,
And examine your next cross roads,
Dissect your life,
Blade in the hand,
Trust the rusty knife,
Trust me right,

Because he's drinking again,
There's ink in this pen,
And that sinking feeling,
Again,
Back when hyper-real men,
Were hyper-real men,
And Derrida spat his feelings into a pearl white basin,
Like blood and teeth,
Back when we were allowed to cry, sob and wretch,
Back when,
When

You could catch your reflection in the eyes of a friend,
Of a face in the mass,

Not searching desperate,
Rainbow swirls of oil on tarmac,
Not searcing desperate,
Mirrored walls of concrete and glass,

Know me for who I am,
We got work to do.


Strike a pose,
Let your prose flow,
Strike a pose,
Let go,
And implode,
Strike a pose,
Never stop,
Grab a cop,
French kiss them,
Walk hand in hand,

People on the beach,
On the brink, on the sand,
With drinks in their hands,
Bland,

Semi-quaver,
On a backdraft melody,
Three wise kings,
And a sealight soliloquy,
Monotony on key breezes,
Keystones skimmed flat,
Entropy,
And not a single egg cup of empathy,
It's a trickle of old fashioned guilt,
Type to make conviction and courage,
Wilt,
Water colours run,
And sun,
Beats down,
Silt on the river bed,
Sediment sleeps,
Swept away today,
While they played for keeps,
And cheap cheap,
Red light,
Alert,
It's expensive,
An arm and a leg,
And it hurts,
Suicide death wish,
Just another charm,
On a fifty cent necklace,

And I've been reckless,
Since striking that first pose,
On the first day of May,

So strike prose,


Strike a pose,
Explode your greys today,
And bring a break in the blues,
Strike a pose amigo,
You got nothing to lose.

Lonely places, busy days,
Tearing eyes, and fading greys,

Fading into other greys.

You don't write bcause you do it,
You do it because,
Of an anwful pressure,
Because you must,

Make dirty,

A clear white page,

Stain it,
With self indulgence,

A 9:26 snapshot,

Border crossings,
Lost souls,
Glass houses,
And my sincere wish,
For a stone to throw.

Broken families,
Spoken word,
Social poetry,
And a smoke on the kerb,
And it's blurred,
What ya heard,
From the ministry of peace,
Throw your hands in the air,
Shouting "Fuck the police"!

The release comes sweetly,
We're all fucked in the end,
Sold out, and cheaply,
Structures to men,
Crunble to the touch,
It's touching and makes me crumble too,
Makes me humble,
Makes me cling,
To the bottom of your shoes,
Guess who?
You.
And guess who's back?
The first one who jumped,
And who led the attack,

They say the day's wack,
Politics bit the dust,
Miltary vehicles,
Hemmed in by rust,
Novas glint,
And in the distance,
the wheel of a dispoisable cigarette lighter,
Clicks and sparks,
Until the split-second it ignites,

In that same split-second,
I take flight,
Leave the fight,
And join anew,
Into the night,
In the light,
In the blue.

As I became more political, critical,
My words have stopped to flow,
I wanna write out the injustice,
And solve it with the same swipe of my pen,
I want to express,
And it not to be useless,
I want to write,
And sling together,
Hard realities,
With gleaming utopias,
Covering everyhting in between,
A user's guide,
To social changed,
And everything it brings,

I must,

And sometimes I realize,
That to write,

Just write,

Is the thing,
The change,
The wind,

And that I am lucky enough to have the time,
The experience,
And education,

To write to confess,
And to forget,

To cry out,
And move on,

And it is something that stays with me,

And I will never rest,
Until every person,
Has the same right,
Until all are equal,
In the chance to create,

This can only come from happiness,
From a far-reaching change,
That starts with us,
And ends in joy.

And it's raining in Berlin,
I can feel it on my skin,
As I speed through the night,
And the brake lights sing,
On the faces and the cars,
I can see the people huddled,
In a muddle in the bars,
I can sense the puddles forming,
Surface broken by the fall,
Every drop that comes reminds me,
It's a call,
And that's all,
I'm scared,
That without me,
You'll live on just the same,
That the centre of my life,
Of my nights,
Of my fame,
Will carry on,
Will continue,
Will stay as it ever was,
The only difference is me,
Not there,

Lost,

And nowhere,

Heat and frost.

Audio blares,
Winks hello,
Peps1 bares flesh, Kobie city,
Next stop,

Art flares past,

DRS, hell bent,

Sean sucked cyclone,
Slow kicks, slow,

Come ride the 364,

Take a risk, take a tea,
Linda Haway,
Each bluff lasts months,

Searing alk,
And slimline car-park ire,

Qsam,

Served cold,
Kwas plus, down and red,

Radiation dies last,

A nod,
Quick spuk,
And limp stix burn quick,

1up on the shay,
Krok steps featherlight,

Broadcast PIUK,
Floor 15,
No way out,

"yo 'sup"?

N' good night,

Bitches one step ahead,
Tubes running tired,

Trude heavy dub club,
Rox guard spectacular,

Bero glides free,

Spud flies,
And we cry,

Still,

Seems that today,


Was the wall.




[Just to let peeps know, this poem was written by collecting graffiti tags from around the area that I live in Berlin, and then sticking them all down onto a paper in different spaces, fillinf in the blanks, and using the rest of the words to put in where I thought they would fit.
Let me know what you think, I'd be interested as it was somewhat of an experiment.]

Those low walls,
Were so high,
As to obscure the sky,
And the cold clinical,
Faux-warm,
Yellow lit hotel room,
Had taken on another dimension,
Rooms where there were none,
Old furniture,
And incomplete extensions,
A thin layer of plaster dust,
And the clinging smell of industrial chemicals,

Outisde the sky was slate,
And I ran,
Down stairs,
Face first into faces like mine,
Full of fear,
Ranged in an unending amphitheatre,

Outside the sky was black,

Desperation and anticipation,
Were loose in the room,
Wounded birds,
Spiralling,

Whispers sparked in the gloom,

And then it was clear,

Outside the sky was white,

Circling,

And then,


Crack,

And then,


Caverns break,


Skylines flash,

Building,

Rivers gone,

Shadows seared and black,

White/black,

And no way back,

Reality dissolved,

And we are in the centre of nothing,

And everything,

The whirl,



The lecture continues regardless,
We never knew,
A blue liught bathes those expectant,
And desperate,
And we are told,

(Cold)

That they will come,

And they will come again,

And not stop,

And then I'm running,
Over sand,
Like treading water,
They come like translucent birds in flight,
Rips in the air,
They sweep low over twilight surf,
Bearing down with intent,

Terror,

They are here,
I am dead,
Sand on the wind,

And I tear up the ridge at half speed,

My possessions have become a link to my survival,

And they lie scattered throughout my past,

My dreams,

And my footprints,
Washed away by the unthinking tide,

Vital to the next weeks,

Days hours,

They are hidden and lost,

In memory's tissue,

Wet ground,
Cut grass,

I can never reclaim them,

They are gone,

I can never go back,

And I will remain scared,

Outside the sky is grey,

And the blue breaks through,
As I run,
Beneath it,
I am desperate,
Out of breath,
I expect,
Look to the future,
Concrete at 100 miles an hour,
Yet I hope,
Never stopping,
Desperate desperate,
Fade to black,

And I wake....









[The experiment intended to free those aspects of human consciousness that we do not know, ended with the likely demise of humanity, our sisters and brothers still fight on, but the time is short, and the chances few - we wish them everything for their journey all the way home]

I'm going out now,
And I'm never coming back,
Until the voiceless have their voices,
And the skies are painted black.

And somehow I've arrived here,
Where I never thought I'd be,
And now that 've stopped moving,
All I want to do is flee,
And this,
This is my plea,

Leave your windows open in winter,
Switch off your TV,
Shun your screens,
And scream,
Free,

Shred your nerves,


And filter them through static,

Take the brackets,
That hide your politics,
And brace yourself,
For the coming storm,

Find a hideaway,

And pray,

That it's warm,

And ring,
Use that number that she gave you,

Because nobody's home,


But sometimes in the tone as you wait,
Face pressed into the receiver,

(desperate)

You can almost hear that voice,

Telling you:

"Abandon philosphy!
Hegel's holed up in the museum,
He's taken 4 hostages,

Plato's still clinging to the bars of a gate,

The same pose from the moment that the knife went in,

Rousseau walked into the mist,
Towards the dark hills,
2 weeks ago now,
No-one's heard from him since".

And then the analogue storm comes,
Snow falls down the line,
And you snap your head away,
Thinking you feel a pain.

It's silence,

And it's the pain that rings in your head,


And always will.

I never once said,
Two words after one another,
Because I was always scared they would stick in my throat,
And be bought up later with blood,
Followed by that desperate wretching search for oxygen,

It was at this time,
That I impaled my reflection,
In a mirror-type rainbow-flecked,
Pool of oil,
On top a puddle,
On top of a street,
Above a sewer,
With the cold earth deep underneath,

Traces of life,

And eventually the magma,

Which nobody seems to care about in the same way as an old newspaper,
Or antique furniture.

Then the following tuesday,
They illuminated the skyline with rockets,
They were meant as a celebration,

But the majority could only think of the war two years earlier,

And the reflections in the glass and steel gave them nowhere to hide,
Like a vision imprinted on the retinas,
Or a sound echoing through the skull,

Channelled through the incessant hum of the fridge,
And the relentless traffic in the distance.

It was in those days that the air was still soft on the skin,

And I can still remember standing naked in the cold,
The chill clinging to every curve,
The exposure terrifying,
And liberating,

My future static,

My future frozen,

No corporate violence,
No intrigue,
No tragedy,
And work,
Hard work,
Soul-breaking work,

I would never feel clean again,

But at this moment,
Back when the air was clear,

I was,
For a second absolved.

That was then,
Before the horizon caught ablaze,

That was back when smiles were rife on the faces of the young,

And those noises drifting on the wind were joys to the ears.

Now,

Dark brown,
And covered towns.

The culture still undulates,

And they drink,
To forget,
As they always did,

And I'm there in the middle,

But now nobody drinks to forget for a time,
For a short period,

They will forget it all,
They must forget it all,
They will sink into 4,000 tales of near perfect futures,
And fatally flawed pasts,

No matter what the problems,

It seems better than now.

But now is now,

And we will seize it,
We will drink to confess,
And to feel it the next morning,
And roughly snatch up our guilt,
With an urgency that our bodies can barely contain,
Turning it into action,

Because the fight is now,
And you can forget it,
And it will forget you,

But none of this stops it from consuming you,

And the only way to survive,


Is simply to keep running.

Working late as powder thin air shimmers through the pane,
Tuggin' at my fringe, wracking my brain for a solution,
Woking for every single brilliant face I see,
Working late, of late for the revolution

What I think I believe,
I belive I think,
And I grieve for my thoughts as they sink in the drink,

And I'm in from the brink,
With ink stained fingerprints,

White on a black background,
Hard to convince,

Myself,

That I'm thinking,
That this biz that plays through my head,
Is anything,
But temporary,

Like a static fuzz,
A buzz,

And when it bleeds,
I mean when it's scribed,
(This is a need for me, you see,
I'll confide)

It's like a sneeze,

Like the veins,
Brought out,
By the frost on a leaf,,

See,

It's fleeting,

And it's there,
It's the colour of my hair,

And it may bring a smile,
Crashing to the lips,
Of you, or that lady,
Or one of her kids,

But is that twitch,
Anything?

Or just grass in the draft,
Caught by the wind?

Just the thing,


This thing,

Cause and effect,

THE effect,
The nothing effect,
Of a fleeting thought,
That was caught in this chest,

And expelled,
To blank white snow,
Like piss in the ice,

Like slate-grey gravel,
Or the sweet scent of vice,



Because,

For that 4 seconds,
That that thought thinks in you,
You think you know me,
(And this is the key!)
I don't know you,
You don't know me,


I know not what I do,

And if I did,
Then I wouldn't,
And would I write,
This scrawl?

For a limited draw,

For a one-man-world,
Scarred hard by the war?


Because maybe,
For that 3 seconds,
For that time that is nothing,
But the light from the sun,
On the moon,
That nothing second,

You do know me,

And you realise quickly,

How dreary,
It is,
To be me,

Your disappointed head,
Masking its woe,
And pulling from that,
Twig-ground-scrawl,
All this shit,

And all this hurt,

And all this anger,

And atmosphere,

And spider tinged noir,
And shadow fringed noir,
And noir,
That is more than that book-film combo,

That is the mortar and the silhouette,,
And the white dot pavement gum,
And the hot breeze underground,


And it is you,
That looks,
And makes that spill,
And that mess,

What it is,

A work of something,
From a crack in the floor,
From a half-open door,
From a thought,
And a glance,
And a stare on a train,


And most important,
From nothing at all.

Alienated,
For a second,
But I love it,
And I breathe,
And nobody's above it,
And we all need time to grieve,
And to believe,

And to not,

And to think,
Think,
Free from the drink,
(Or not),
Plunged so deep,
And the heat white hot,
I forgot,
(And I suspect so did you)
That there wasn't a single second left,
For me to talk to you,
And when I did,
I grinned,
Like an idiot,
And pulled a face,
Because sometimes,
(In this place)
It's easier to tell a hundred people you're fine,
(Better than fine,
Superb,
And inspirational)
Than to admit to a single person that you're falling,
And that those bleak days,
(Those bleak grey,
Stonewash days)
Are coming back to haunt you,
But you welcome them,
And twitch,
Your,
Lips,

And it's the smell,

Of rain in a graveyard,
And the world up to your hips,
And it is,
(What this is),
Bliss,
With your life in a mess,
And your mind in a tizz,

And you wish you could follow up,
(Up, up,
Or follow through)

Thise chemicals ingested in the rough,
Or your vision blurred,
Across a sea,
Of parallel concrete paltforms,

And the soft hiss that never left,
And you wish you weren't so lonely,
But your friends are there,
And yet,
You,
(I),
Long for the weak light,
To illuminate the strong,
(Bound for the wrong path),
In you,
To cling tight,
To the pane,
That is your comfort,
That is you,

And everything you do,
And everything you do,

Seems to glint,


And slowly die,


And thoughts of death are sexy,
And you just can't figure why,

This time,
This supply,
Of sheet rain,
Batters hard at your brain,
And trickles,
(Slowly)
Through the cracks,
A dull black hiss,
The soft impacts,
Impact,
And highlight,
(In echoes down dirt brown derelict walls,
twilight lit collapsed roofs)
Everything right and wrong,


And no answers,
(And no answers),
Just these,
3,
Questions:

Who am I?
(This is easy for me you see,
It's 1 times 5 and five times me),

Why the fuck am I so confused?

And will I ever speak to you,

Like I want?
(And I crave)

For a single second,
Of a single day,
As language sinks,
(and sinks),
In a thousand shades of 'they'.

And no-one understands me,
And perhaps they never will,
It's teenage angst,
For over 20s,
Hot enough to kill,

And when I think back,
To that smoky cluttered bank,
With bar,
And brain,
And beer,
And damp,
And poets,
With demands,

My liver almost twitches,
My eyebrows curl to arcs,
My stomach aches,
My cheeks vibrate,
And in my head,
It's dark,

And light,

And I know why I'm here,
And forever I'll fight,

(Right),

And then give up the struggle,
For a minute,
For a break,
For a sunday morning cigarette,
Or from a sudden attack of the shakes,

And resume,

From the bottom up,
From somewhere in between,
With anarchists,
With socialists,
With people from my team,
And our team,
And something,
Somewhere,
Floating,
Gloating,
Nothing more than a gleam,
And a nameless name,
And a glint,
In the eye,
And an end to all fame,
And a single slash in the ice,
Where it bleeds,
Where I died my last death,
And we choked on our knees,

And pleaded,

And stared at rotten brickwork,

And my heart wasn't in it,

So it ceased to exist,

So it sunk in a cloud,

In a concrete mist,

And I'm pissed...

...Again,

And he's pissed...

...Again.

I always cry with my eyes,

And not with my pen,

With tearless eyes,
That cry to the sky,
As the sun sets heavy,

And fast,

And I rush for my train,

While standing so still,

While standing so still,

In the middle of a 4 minute 34 second revolution,

That I forgot to start,

That I joined late,

And of which I'm a part,

And a two year process,
That ended in joy,
Like a healthy relationship with substance abuse,

After a period of waking up covered in shit,

Cold and shivering,

After a period of walking barefoot through streets,
Feet dirty in the morning,
But the soles hardened to the detritus of urban decay,

That clings to your skin,
Like sin,
And the grey,

And the way they all say,

"That was then,
This is now,
(This that which we vow)

Let's think for today",

"And what can we do?
Not what can we dream,
And with who must we work?
And with who should we scheme"?

You should dream,
Beacuse my dreams live in me,
And I live in my dreams,

But my dreams,

(our dreams)

Live also,

In reality,

In the face of that man,
Or the leaves of that tree,

And you think you can see,
The point of life today,

In that drawing of a bird,

Colourful and unreal,

Produced by a 7 year old with no planning,

And it breathes,

We breathe,

together,

There's no such thing as stupid,

And no such thing as clever,

And never would I say,

That it's obvious to think,

But comes the revolution,

We're teetering on the brink,


And as soon as my words flow,

Into your ideas too,

Then this thing comes together,

And there's nothing they can do.

This was the city of industry,

And this twilight,
Was the day,
That boat,
Was once somneone's pride and joy,
And now rusts as it floats beneath a smoky horizon.

That man,
Cold, alone, and happy,
Was once at the heart of a crowd of smiling people,
Lost in a blur of thought and nothingness,
Hazy night-out perfect illusions,
That wouldn't dare shatter on the tranquil surface of a moonlit backwater,
But instead slip through frozen fingers,
Like plumes of smoke,
From the end of a hand rolled cigarette.

That boy,
Silhouetted against that towering development,
And it is this which is so clear,
This infinite confusion,
And deep and continuous melancholy,
This perpetual frown,
Only just hidden by a dozen walks underneath the elctric rails late at night,
And by dependence on,
Everything,

These people,
These structures,
These legs,
These,
And this,
Bottomless,
Pit,
Of nothing.

And no-one needs to see this,
Perhaps they never will,
It's a dark stain on the pavement,
And my legs,
dangling,
When sitting,
On the chipped paint,
On the flaked paint,
On that window sill,

Looking down,
At this knotted city,
Mystic in it's clouds of smog,
The smell of sweet,
And (never) futile rebellion,

A ghost tugs there,
At the sleeve,
As If you knew somehow,
That it was you,
And that only days earlier,
You floated,
And that this box was open,
And wrenching happiness flooded,
The unevenly cobbled streets,


But,
This was nothing to that,
That was the graveyard from the train,
Not a single inscription readable,
Windows closed tight against the icy mist,
And the scent of the dead,
Only registered in our heads,

And if they came,
Then they came,
And they came for me first,
And last,
So that I was the only one left,
Miserable ever since I'd been gone.

Man the barricades,
And when they flutter in the wind so romantic,
The red scarves,
It's so tragic,
To see them,
In real life,
Crumpled on the bedroom floor,
Or hung out to dry,

Just like the molotov,
Serves as confessional for the tears of a brigade,
The nights before the revolution.

Bang.

The explosion that we had wished for forever,
the explosion that shook the night,
The explosion when that tiny thing dropped,
That single hair found on your coat,
Hit the ground,
To the sound,
Of a gunshhot,

It's the world,
And the sirens,
Glow red-hot,
This is not,
A test,
This is a pre-emptive strike,
And unlawful arrest,

And this is not despair,
This is knowing the enemy,
Musings on the abyss,
Staring into the eyes of a stranger,
For just long enough,

And I feel the grief pour out from me,
As I think about the future beyond my control,
And that I am helpless,

But that this is only the greatest challenge,
That I can imagine,
Because what,
If,
It's not?

What's more romantic than struggling against the tide,
The current?
Apart from possibly death by drowning,
Bloated and blue.

It's another thought,
Shattered hard,
By the scatter-shot,
Of a mispent brain,
Trained hard in nothing,
Skills acumulated from,
Endless staring and contemplating,
And nothing,
And nothing,

Thrown into the stream,
Swimming for our lives,
As the third person evaporates,
And we will always
(In my head),
Be together,
You (everyone),
Will tug at my soul,
As I sit,
And as I eventually die,
So suddenly,
I can imagine,
Every face,
And awkward moment,
And misplaced feeling,
And wonderful smile,
And single less-than-a-second-long look,
That feels like a cup of cold water in my lungs.

So no advice,
But this.

So no regrets,
But these,
(1000 or so),
Which define me,

And which I will never regret,

And no loneliness,

Apart from this,

Which surrounds me completely,
And which I will never escape,
Even in your arms,

When sometimes I feel most alone,

The loneliness is in me,
And not outside,
And If I could put a gun to my head,
And kill only this,
I would have
(Have I tried?
This powder mark on my hair in the morning,
And endless head ache),

But there are no options,
Only everything,
To choose,
So this,
Is what I will do,
Choose nothing,
And everything,
And remain fully conscious,
As I naviagte my path through the grey of the morning,

Into a world of nothing,
Into someone real,
Into your arms,

And into peace,

For just a single second, of a single day.

[a]

And it seems so charcoal,
Charcoal bleak,
And the trains fly by,
Crush flat,
Whole weaks,
And they,
Smile,
And they,
Are there,
Red light flash,
On a beige horizon now,
Just a single thought,
of 'out',
Left,
This is the single answer,
The single mistake,
And me, single,
Independent,
Alone,
And free,
Wrapped in words,
With a skelton key,
And scuffed patches,
On the knees of my jeans,
Where I dropped to them,
Again and again,
Only one night before.

[r]

These words are drops of rain,
And sleet,
And metal expanding in heat,
These words will bring a change,
Just you dare to let them,
Please,
Fuck 'pleases',
Take them,
They're yours,
Like a grenade without the pin,
And you can keep it in your attic,
For years,
And just wait until,
It goes bang,
And brings down on you,
The detritus,
Of a million years,
Of somebody else's life,
That you want to live.

But this is change,
And you are part of it,
With your croissant,
That you must leave at the door,

With your door,

That you must leave at the door,
Because it is the exact same size,

But didn't you think to put it on it's side?

Do this now,
And carry it high.

Carry it high.

Always.



"Run!

Just fucking run!

Keep running!

And cling tight to that,
Yes that!

Don't let go,

And fucking run.








Run"!


...

Breakdown city,
And it looms like a shade,
In a shade like black,
Once the light's been delayed,
And there it is,
Glaring,
And there it is,
Dead,
And there it is swimming,
Swinging,
Clinging to my head,
And it comes from far above,
Screaming down from outer space,
Past the glinting Christmas twinkle,
To my heart,
Gut,
And my face,
And I shudder,
Falter,
Whimper,

Turn into a prick,
And cling to concrete buildings,
Crush my fringe into the brick,
Stick my hopes to dark horizons,
Plaster sighs across the boards,
Derelict inside,
My muscles,
Ache
And shout,
And,
Fake a cause,
And these doors,

Are closed as usual,

And this meat,

Tastes bitter,
In my mouth,

And this sunlight,

Falls dull and slits my words,

And these words,
Mean nothing,
And never have,

And these words,
Mean nothing,
And never have,

And these words,


Sink in bass,

And cathode,

And clouds,

A single clinging,
Skimming,
Eroding,
Expolding,
Cumulonimbus,
Ugly in the sky,
But fluffy to the eye,

There are no words,

And suddenly,

Everyhting is simple,

Everything is calm,

I feel a horrible rushing,
And clutch my wrist and arm,
And feel everyhthing drop away,

(Back-tracking to the point,
At which it all went worng,
The point before,
I woke up in a cell,
Facing a lifetime stretch,
Or at least,
Derision,
And a permanent record,
A permanent record,

Recorded...)

And it's dropped,
And it's stopped,
And I'm happy for a tick,
And I stare at the ground,

And I lose my self,

In the sound,

In the ground,
In the shadows of the clouds,

In the faces,
In the crowds,
In the darkness,
Of that sparkling,

Of that sparkling slick of sick.