this house is full of eye-level clouds.
every night, between 1 am and the
sound of that cat in the alley outside.
pudgy cloud belies full of half dreams
and night sores. I wander into them at random, accidentally.
In the midst of calling crows, or scraping lacquer from the celing,
or whatever it is that I do at these unspoken hours.
one cloud dream was a boil of monstrous serenity that very nearly killed me. In the fields were flowers carved out of the prettiest of all the other flowers, swaying from the hardened influence of a massive subwoofer. little waves of rumble.
for a while, I was made quite irrational by the knowledge of perfection. I said things. there were claw marks. and I kicked myself for it later, picking up all of the blood I had spilled. But I still look for that could from time to time.
(squinting hard, because they're all of them invisible, and made of brooding fumes. next time, I tell myself, peering into the mass of my open door. next time, I'll just close my eyes and die.)
from It Doesn't Breathe Anymore
released March 3, 2015
lyrics: kindly donated by Karsten Kelsey. Featured in his collection of poems entitled..." SKY"
David Algrim: Vox
Kyle Smith: Vox
Aimee Tenuta: Vox
Adam Heil: Drums
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