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?