You are here
The machines slice the long of his sentences
into the small silent wordings.
After work he returns to his house,
the girl he imagines marrying
but even this marriage sustains for thirty plant lives,
each dying in dehydration.
Sadness has both shoulders
sore after he wore them high in a mock gaiety.
We know.
The facts rumors through the factory autumn
when kicking leaves raises
the rusty small objects we produce
those nails for your eyes and the Goth for your intentions.
We hear about his fire in the house
and how he sleeps in a damp blanket.
Then we return to the machines so antic
we feel safe in their hum;
they cannot replace us anytime soon.
We watch his shoulders, padded and sparked off his neck.
His shoulders mastered the art of shrugging.
They keep it up entire day,
two mechanical hands picking up bad emotions,
piling them in the discarded heap,
a long truck will carry away to an imaginary scrap land.
The machines slice the long of his sentences
into the small silent wordings.
After work he returns to his house,
the girl he imagines marrying
but even this marriage sustains for thirty plant lives,
each dying in dehydration.
Sadness has both shoulders
sore after he wore them high in a mock gaiety.
We know.
The facts rumors through the factory autumn
when kicking leaves raises
the rusty small objects we produce-
those nails for your eyes and the Goth for your intentions.
We hear about his fire in the house
and how he sleeps in a damp blanket.
Then we return to the machines so antic
we feel safe in their hum;
they cannot replace us anytime soon.
We watch his shoulders, padded and sparked off his neck.
His shoulders mastered the art of shrugging.
They keep it up entire day,
two mechanical hands picking up bad emotions,
piling them in the discarded heap,
a long truck will carry away to an imaginary scrap land.
The machines slice the long of his sentences
into the small silent wordings
After work he returns to his house,
the girl he imagines marrying
but even this marriage sustains for thirty plant lives,
each dying in dehydration.
Sadness has both shoulders
sore after he wore them high in a mock gaiety.
We know.
The facts rumors through the factory autumn
when kicking leaves raises
the rusty small objects we produce-
those nails for your eyes and the Goth for your intentions.
We hear about his fire in the house
and how he sleeps in a damp blanket.
Then we return to the machines so antic
we feel safe in their hum;
they cannot replace us anytime soon.
We watch his shoulders, padded and sparked off his neck.
His shoulders mastered the art of shrugging.
They keep it up entire day,
two mechanical hands picking up bad emotions,
piling them in the discarded heap,
a long truck will carry away to an imaginary scrap land.
