The Eastern Sun
Spits the drift of dust between where the window was
And the manor coat to scratch the back of
Here lies Floyd, flexing his milkshake muscles
My God, he looks good
In his well-sweathed room with his spine in his sleeve
Who brought the stretch to hold his ankle?
Who carried it in his hand?
Someone should tell him
Someone should
The latter could answer too
His questions could be one truth too much
Someone should tell him
Someone should
Cut the gun and kiss the ring
Tend to trembling legs again
Pour the oil, rub it in
Another cow-mouthed summer
In a fecund farmhouse west of Eden
All bricks and puddles
While they're just meeting snake-root corners
They call him the farmer's big spade
For his hard-fat head and long lean legs
He hasn't changed
Since he made himself an early bird
So much for all the crumbles
The irration amongst the rats
Someone should tell him
Someone should
He saved every brick from one drop
To rebuild the other side
Someone should tell him
Someone should
Don't trust what the evening says
The farmer's spade was rusted red
And found his candle lit amongst the weeds
With a
demythol
I could just
One day
The next
week
We'll be right back.
We'll be right back.