Thursday, August 17, 2006

UNTITLED DRAFT ON WEATHER

and so, the death of passion:
the sun is fled from sky,
and as the clouds begin to cry
the siren sounds the ashen
wind, the dirty snow that never fell,
so if you slip you'll go to hell,
at least after a fashion.
no more screaming lyrics
no more broke guitars
no more fire on the way
no more: the sunshine's gone today
burning asphalt, glinting flint
a land so spider it is Slint
hide her under thick, black tar
or different sounds from one guitar
this street's repaved with wet concrete
it's quicksand fucking on the street
a change spelt out in dead cement
this music is so different

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