Letras
The name of every landlord
Is displayed out on the awning
And the farmers in their amber fields
Were harmonized in yawning
As the memory of the ghost hung at the exit
And the city doctor called in feeling head sick
All the freedom founding fathers
Altogether speak too soon
The sounds that mutter underneath
The glowing Greek blue moon
As the tide rolls up beyond the walking trail
Soon on hibernate in every mocking gale
React to it at your leisure
Modern pressure
All the streets were filled with carbon
And a pack of trembling dogs
The weather comes in from the east
Spills a Kremlin fog
As they fill the holes of every open tomb
Near the factories of dirty broken loom
The sky was open wide
And it was pouring civil war
The body that you carried once
Comprised a simple lore
Where the ice bathed at the cinema
Ode anagrams
Though no one could go past your
Little diaphragm
The stillness of the changing weather
Modern pressure
That oasis sometimes lingers
Like a patch of blackened ice
The cellars of the ruins have been
Locked and packed in twice
Only names are what remain to label you
Where I heard the prayers of sex and table food
Out beyond the sunrise
Waits another pounding storm
Somewhere from the rubble sounds
Of nothing sounding born
At the zero grounds of future battle sites
While the gods still fill our heads with satellites
Take the seeds my holy thresher
Modern pressure