this sinking boat is taking us to the èshafuod.
all the chindren are watching fly sinking in the citrus jem.
they aren’t crying,
(break your grandmother’s mason jar.)
no more canned aspirations,
and poisoned apples preserved in the honey, sleeping beauty!
a britsh lady, – is made out of fog and the afternoon rain,
is standing on the barren cliff,
chanting mantras in to the wind.
burning peat, psychedelic mead.
don’t beg her for pity for your soaking pants and shoes.
wear an orange life vest,
maybe the coast guards will find you
and pull you out of water.
blow the whistle, blow it hard.
maybe the big fish will swallow you,
and spit you out on the shores of the ancient city.
Metatron is waiting for you on the streets
of the ancient city.
see that girl with a wolf and the rose?