Been run over by a herd o’ kids in skates.
Who’s the mystic in this rink.
I know I can be inventive with the blades.
Saddle your hip crevices and find we have
Stalactites hanging from our very structures
Enclosed in our pockets that we learn to sew
So there are no wholes in your retainer
At this seam but keys fall and coins with lint typical they
Seem to always add metallic to your bracelet.
We can forge it
Anneal the enactments of the liver in heat.
Incinerate these bones that insinuate a body being.
We all band together blazing through the abandoned one.
Magnify the man prostrate on the glass ice.
An escapade to the horse trotting
Tracing the hind over the rind over
Stalagmites interrupting the landscape
Bulging from our collars as a goiter
So there are no whorls in you doors only cloisters
But the hinges house the termites here
Wanting wooden love on a rectangular.
We can cut it
Live real attachments out of the hardware shrunken expansion
From the cold these hairs sprout from the dirt of earth.
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