They could close this island but the F#ers wont

When refuge could be guaranteed, but those f$ers wont do it.

This mind feels like rough broken finger nails clawing at a slimy wooden deck

that in summer housed apple blossom and wine glasses into gold afternoons

This discomfort of being bound up in cable ties incompatible with neurons

there are hands around my throat trying to pass themselves as ivy or wisteria.

I’m not fooled by this.

I’m so weighted this bed may no longer hold my fall from here

This is where we find ourselves trying to catch our breath

never mind the stomach or the dreams or the desperation

2020 vision in 21, it’s still a mans world falling to pieces.