George's Skies
๐ต 1394 characters
โฑ๏ธ 5:01 duration
๐ ID: 23248953
๐ Lyrics
George's hit code red again, a downright 2 & 8,
holding a walking bellow like he was the mighty and distant purge
of the Swatted Ball in an old Warner Bros. cartoon:
all mouth and jangling tongue yawing toward the downtown skyline
as designed by lung and carnal rage.
The curtains above him peel inward and fall quickly back in place,
and George cuts the engines; goes slouch beneath a nearby stoop
and roils in adagio, rocking back and forth, secretly intent,
almost monkish.
It's clear he's through with the kid's stuff.
No tears, no more of the same ageless sorrows, none of it.
Any last grief will just have to wait till the bottom of that tall boy
he's got hitched in his back pocket appears, you bet.
It's clear there will be no more querulous fits for today. It's payback time.
George's time. A daily shit
starring George: squat over a cardboard box,
his face an opaque drift of frowns under a mess of cloacal black hair
and beard, gazing skyward and back as though suddenly land-weary
and adoring of the ocean's broader firmaments.
The coastal bulkheads lit pink and purple at their bellies
are coming in fast and with credible heft from the sea,
and they hit the cipher in him, that shape of mercy he takes in sleep
once the beer and day have done him in. A frozen and ponderous
form of him, looking as dead as those of shock-bombed cities, flung
immobile and hewn to the pavement.
holding a walking bellow like he was the mighty and distant purge
of the Swatted Ball in an old Warner Bros. cartoon:
all mouth and jangling tongue yawing toward the downtown skyline
as designed by lung and carnal rage.
The curtains above him peel inward and fall quickly back in place,
and George cuts the engines; goes slouch beneath a nearby stoop
and roils in adagio, rocking back and forth, secretly intent,
almost monkish.
It's clear he's through with the kid's stuff.
No tears, no more of the same ageless sorrows, none of it.
Any last grief will just have to wait till the bottom of that tall boy
he's got hitched in his back pocket appears, you bet.
It's clear there will be no more querulous fits for today. It's payback time.
George's time. A daily shit
starring George: squat over a cardboard box,
his face an opaque drift of frowns under a mess of cloacal black hair
and beard, gazing skyward and back as though suddenly land-weary
and adoring of the ocean's broader firmaments.
The coastal bulkheads lit pink and purple at their bellies
are coming in fast and with credible heft from the sea,
and they hit the cipher in him, that shape of mercy he takes in sleep
once the beer and day have done him in. A frozen and ponderous
form of him, looking as dead as those of shock-bombed cities, flung
immobile and hewn to the pavement.