Witching hour in the universe Necklaces hang like strange fruit from heaven Skin cold in the midnight hum The mirror in the corner leads to another room The last will and testament of the copycat eyes tomb
Bedouin carpet on my floor Giving me visions of white turbans and coffee’d faces Rug on bed, red and orange With city streets crawling in the their burning polluted frenzy
Through fire light enters the darkness Paintbrushes in spirit, much like the spirit in my lungs Through these looking glass, we’ll point ours guns
Nothing moves in my room My teal walls take me to the desert underwater Not a mimic who dwells on the surface And breaks like glass But the place of white horses on sand dunes, Lightning on neptune, And the scaffold faces of workaday blues
Greasy screw cap twisted Golden spiced rum fuming Cuban petrol for the alcoholic artist Pirate of the high eyes
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