As the near ship lurches and doors close at churches
As the near night fails and the broadside light trails
As the coffee has been cold for nearly a decade
As the season comes to an end and the storeroom is morbidly quiet
the cigarette butt falls through the slats of the pier
down to the wharf where barque gremlins quiver awash
lichen covered and lapsed and dazed. dazzled and dazzling
the razzmatazz trash cymbals devolving madmen
dissolving dysentery and disinterested in retribution
the cigarette butt falls through the slats of the pier
down to the wharf where sturdy maidens clamor
for cancerous elbows and carcinogens and laughing.
crafting and casting lures for the unsuspecting diver
in his bell with the red cap and the charming smile
II
aqua-lunged and curious 18 meters deep he asks
why she wears such a frown. she cannot speak but gestures
the human with long legs and sand in his toes. there sits the
prince who loves alone, fingers wrapped round thoughts of a sad
faced fish woman. and longing undoes the she-thing
never make mention of what she has become and if
she still dabbles in human affairs from clouds. while the pirate
ship groans across the moon. there, the boy and his fey. the boy
and his thimbled lady. the boy and his bastard brothers living
what we'd only imagined. feyness in kittyhawk
As Icarus goes down he thinks of scotch and milk and miles
He thinks of the never have been and of his electro-theremin
He thinks of the never have done and of his little black book
As Icarus goes down he whispers: how brilliant they will be
As Icarus goes down he thinks of scotch and milk and miles
He thinks of the never have been and of his electro-theremin
He thinks of the never have done and of his little black book
As Icarus goes down he whispers: how brilliant they will be
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