The Astronaut
"And there he lay like a dead thing"- J.R.R. Tolkien
I.
It is going to be hard and faster
Like dentures unpicked or soaked in lime
He in supplication can't extricate tomorrow
Paints donate only to nothing near us.
They think the willows aren't doing the run.
They wonder yesterday had us controlled
No sooner does it arrive in dancing does it arrive in hands
There no limit gives halt to magma and very simple cancellations of no.
Breaches hold significance only to reachings. Nothing's really closed.
A panting pays, denials are a gift: They, blessed, turn out all
We weren't wishing to be there: had it done well, we'd be
How else can you give all you can't see their due?
You can't just fracture a bone for nothing short than leave.
There's money there but only in context of protracting nausea.
There's suddenness but only when you exclude a demographic.
Out of questions, not another word, being theirs: these couldn't
Be enough, to bring anyone interested in norms.
You couldn't do better than this: there's partly something doing us in.
Wouldn't there be something coming out of us?
I'm not taking pictures of you when I'm writing
I couldn't have been prescribing but couldn't be more forlorn.
Things change and all the idioms don't come
Unrealized: patterns have some sense
When you don't consider mud as it were
Something only the feverish appreciate.
And have reason to pray for tonight.
II.
The kid behind the kid using the computer asleep.
Jocosity only follows those at down. Your new
Chair is where these two kids sit and now it is
Possible no one really knows: the astronaut
Screened understands now what's stellar
Undecided are the buttons when left silent
What images remain die in flashback: no people
Remember your spit but your images satellite
Us together, like blade, does heed no radio
Everyone's with their sleeping and tongue's enough.
I.
It is going to be hard and faster
Like dentures unpicked or soaked in lime
He in supplication can't extricate tomorrow
Paints donate only to nothing near us.
They think the willows aren't doing the run.
They wonder yesterday had us controlled
No sooner does it arrive in dancing does it arrive in hands
There no limit gives halt to magma and very simple cancellations of no.
Breaches hold significance only to reachings. Nothing's really closed.
A panting pays, denials are a gift: They, blessed, turn out all
We weren't wishing to be there: had it done well, we'd be
How else can you give all you can't see their due?
You can't just fracture a bone for nothing short than leave.
There's money there but only in context of protracting nausea.
There's suddenness but only when you exclude a demographic.
Out of questions, not another word, being theirs: these couldn't
Be enough, to bring anyone interested in norms.
You couldn't do better than this: there's partly something doing us in.
Wouldn't there be something coming out of us?
I'm not taking pictures of you when I'm writing
I couldn't have been prescribing but couldn't be more forlorn.
Things change and all the idioms don't come
Unrealized: patterns have some sense
When you don't consider mud as it were
Something only the feverish appreciate.
And have reason to pray for tonight.
II.
The kid behind the kid using the computer asleep.
Jocosity only follows those at down. Your new
Chair is where these two kids sit and now it is
Possible no one really knows: the astronaut
Screened understands now what's stellar
Undecided are the buttons when left silent
What images remain die in flashback: no people
Remember your spit but your images satellite
Us together, like blade, does heed no radio
Everyone's with their sleeping and tongue's enough.
Labels: death
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