Someone is calling psychics on the phone at 3 am The future runs through the telephone wires Sitting in a rain cloud on the fire escape Waiting for the building to burn
Steelhead and blackmouth packed up in the fishing nets Emptied in the sluice then airborne in the news The salt gets in your skin and preserves a feeling Grey on grey on grey on grey on grey
The sky breaks open Your shirt is soaking through Something is choking you
The writers and the singers and the dancers and the dealers Carry the same needles, feathers and thread Queen Anne was a friend of mine and she'll always be For coffee shops for flannel shirts For realtors for English ivy
Why do you want these lies? Why do you keep holding strong to these ties?
