Fires come from the mouth. They burn their way into the lower organs. Everything turns to kites/strange strings. You have to do it again and again. Nothing else exists/it seems. Only the heart remains. A clean range of luck and danger/ a jury of the way we were. And are/ and keep singing. Even when seeing goes blind intentionally and the stage is lit with the carpenter's ego blowing up to prove a beat exists between... Fires come from the mouth. They burn their way into the lower organs. Everything turns to run/on dreams. You have to do it again and again. Nothing else. Exists. It seems. Only the heart remains. And everything.
