Turn down the gray noise, bus
driver. No need for the
the dryads and nymphs to be distracted.
Turn off the horizon and remove the
lemon tide, take nothing from
the golden trees with dying eyes
and lying fruit.
Hold no glass but rudder.
Cast aside the peace of pieces, dryad,
and dance beneath the lunar
disco. Bibloteca made by the
Aztecs formed of snow and blood, no
skulls for skill. And drive forth bus
man, to the depth of the green.
My eyes has seen the coming of the Lord, hidden behind closed eyes, filled with static
No longer do dogs of war threaten to hold open my eyes and keep it at bay.
Dryad, you awake from the star crossed field, sea of tide and bleach.
Dryad, reach your bare limb of mine, caress the dove and crush it.
Dryad, remove your bark, and chew the peppermint with it.
Cowards dance around ye, and I lie with eyes of fire.
Burn your branches with Promethean thought.
No home or cove to hide the cats in.
The savage faith of the ensorced.
Eyes see the dogs and static.
Dryad, fear the cloths.
Cast aside in me
Sea the see.