part 1 - dressing up the song

- these wines are partial to their soviet dressing, and hope floats when the night air comes screaming into the window, tired but not resting until it undresses your whole makeup. the tight blessing of a quilt wrapped nicely around you and the dream of white knives on your dresser. the simple tyrant that walks into the window, he knows he is only Jack Frost. he cannot be a further impulse, but just a man of myth.

- minds staple their weight, shapes tie their homes on to the poetic justice fought for gallantly by the knights of old. these are the ways they come inside me, poetic and just as the wind rips through my skin and i must pull headlong into fate to come out the other side as a sure footed goat, falling into the pulse of a racing car - the sort of thing timed by society to be hopelessly midwestern and commenting that resigning to this direction, i can wait. i am a good waiter, that is what i do, i wait.

- while waiting i see the light and the shadows, but of a different universe or infinity that the still around stubborn old elves that i know. these people you requested for the spacial reality may have been the wrong songwriters than you we thinking they would be. these shiny tweeters and their mindscapes, the ropes and wandering poets that speak to us, these are not exactly who you requested, but the lady on the rope, she works for the high elves. that is a good thing.

- because where else could we go? there is no home for either of us anymore, just a staple brought forth from mindless waterford - a man who speaks like John Cleese in Faulty Towers, the hilarious image of a better world, the wine who ties me here with the weapons that fault the reader: a shape of things to come. this is the stubborn old elf that watches you. he watches because he wants to go to sleep.

- sometimes i forget things too, i told you. sometimes i make coffee without pouring the ingredients together and this makes my friends (perhaps) a little more restless. speak like this and the watermarked region that washes our sheets belongs to the others. speak like this and there is not motive to keep going. the wine washes my feet. i can belong.