thru the cold,
and the rich and the rank and the relay,
pale feet wear scars on the concrete,
the roar that stirs under the stars
the endless buzzing—
her eyes feel undecided
trying to work out
whether or not
it’s worth trusting in
and the paint’s thin enough
to show silver peaking
and wildflowers that cut
deep into her sides
inside it lies
untouched
and I want to drown
in its unknown depths.
the walls are sweating
falling forwards
sands of time or
a leaky pipe dissolving the plaster
congestion
a leaky nose
and so many noises run
unopposed
motion clutters the frame
for a second
motion
velocity
interstitial velocities
interstitial seconds of velocity
interstitial moments of inner motion
sounds move parallel to trains
voices weave in and out
noises
voices winding through the signs
they sing and play guitar through a tiny little amp
and the sound bounces of the walls and the posters and
trips the man late to his train
he has work on main street
and he’s late
the walls are sweating
the paint peels off of the walls
pieces of paint curling like a dirty finger
hairy walls
hairy air
hairy floor
the walls are sweating
pimples and cc
curling like a dirty finger
hidden in the light
people who inspire you to dream