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January 02, 2006
the tin machine
of wicker and tin
we boast
laying down the heavy hand
an iron fist
on a podium of tinfoil
gazes drift like ashes
as the undetrow pulls from the bottle
the remains of civility
draw back the heavy lilac curtains
reveal a simple and crippled machine
no whitewashing can cover the corrosion
tha flakes to the touch
no golden breastplate can conceal the ruins
tha lie beneath the facade
mist and fog are the seasons
over which I preside
groping for nothing, pleading with no one
in the silence that hangs; forsaken
sunspots and chasers
fill the areas abandoned by sensation
comedy is as simple as an injection
nothing comes easier
or is more welcome
than a good show
given for those who know nothing
and have no interest in understanding
the plateaus of pain
that command this shadow
I cast
over myself
Posted by Drexler at January 2, 2006 10:40 AM