Antique tables turn:
Now, the atlas is pressing on my back;
Each vertebra is prone to moan or begroan this
Prehistoric spine not used to bending so far from home.
Each vertebra is prone to moan or begroan this
Prehistoric spine not used to bending so far from home.
O, travel agents, or agents of standstill, cry
‘Fold down the glossiest pages’ -
I haven’t been anywhere and
I don’t know where to go.
These dog-ears tell you so.
I haven’t been anywhere and
I don’t know where to go.
These dog-ears tell you so.
Cartographers tyrannise with their contour line lassoes.
Mapmaker, mapmaker
Forge us a path:
We want the sea on the ceiling and sand between our teeth
A monsoon in the desert and a deckchair on the reef.
Watch us steady the anarchic waves
We want the sea on the ceiling and sand between our teeth
A monsoon in the desert and a deckchair on the reef.
Watch us steady the anarchic waves
Just with our twenty years of non-experience, our buckets and spades.
Give us our Arctic shots and Jupiter drops,
Wave a white cloth and see us off.
anyone else really want a gap life?
No comments:
Post a Comment