underneath our streets are more streets
i saw you flying
they think im built of numbers
they think youre built of numbers one hundred years down and times
made dust of bones you could say that you will be ready
with a feeding tube strung through
your gas mask
all your words used to have meaning
but they lost their cores
float unmoored should you get bored
turn to the screen with a steady pour
poor poor ma**es
little more slumber
little folding of the hands to rest
fold your hands to rest