Giant Folklore for the Sky

and a huge ivory rivalry ate the night twice this August, moonshine/ finally, and again
god and reason became dialects, me talk pretty any day now, they pledged and played the circle game over and over until there were no more curves in the road just light and shadow, tears and blow-kisses at the moment you mean to lift a fuck you finger, it works like gagging, works when you want to scream, choking on the atmosphere in a dream. Silence is a place in which to scream, and the ivory in me gets too many hands once in a while I'd like to land on the moon with the good liars-- dialectical I mean, we become opposites because it's too painful to face the tribe and deny it. Much to my disappointment, to meet god you gotta meet the devil too, and both are so beautiful every two moon August you almost wanna worship a man you can't stand just to protect the one you love from the commons. The lies could grow on us, fill us up with ivory and paint us black beauty, have us at the front door of our own homes asking for directions home--- I think we'd better dance quietly until the sun rises