Scumbi

A saddled shipyard in the sound A softly crooning tinkling He hath found There fellow gentry Run aground Seeping from the earth Behind our time Run your shipwrecks forth to lay As nestled children Drown'd within the hay Can you hear the rapturous Quaking muse? A key of lucid skin Which crowns sinew Tailor, Prepare me now My summer cloak Pray Sew me now My favoured summer's cloak ...

There is this place. You travel two kilometers outside of here, the road falls away, and I find it difficult stepping upon the broken path. Cars will watch you here. Lights run from you. It’s dark. The boy at the gas-pump will wave and lock the door and his boy blue shark will take him home and I stay. I see it and watch it away from people. And I cannot say. It’s being hospitalized. It is like no sound wants to touch me, as I am alone. Sound does not wish to be alone with me. So I’m ignored. But how often have I really been this way? Probably longer than has been given credit for. And every night this reminds me. The beaut