Ever feel like, if you open your eyes as he leans on you like a child over the tiger rag, you'll find you've been dancing with a ghost
Would it matter so much, afterall. Would even the courage go gray and lifeless if you looked at it too again, too repeated, the dense riddle of it drifting into a conniption's afterlife: so calm. No more spite. No more opinions grazing the reed til it moans about them and sends them home to no where on a slurred keyless caravan of yes. I had him reading Ulysses outloud to me while I slid beneath headphones to watch and make the machines clap like the gimpy genius children of our 3 graces.
And we're enchanted against this hideous modern backdrop, no more panic or fear of no where. And the shades of unnumbed generations of cannibals are watching us from high on the side of a cliff, feeding us this pride of how I want you to lie to me just as sweetly as you did just then, for the rest of my life
Ever feel like if he opens his eyes as you lean on him like a child over the tiger rag he'll find he's been dancing with a ghost
