right between the eyes, the catalyst, the trucker mother rears her oblivious head and shouts something into the four winds, but the four winds are in conflux, conflagration, and generally busying themselves in an intercourse of intersection, and as such, what she has shouted has been lost in the climax, the conflux, the conflagration.
generally speaking, it has been consumed.
then, subsumed, she slinks off the stool and wanders toward the bathroom in arrears and finds herself in a body wandering through a blue field, call it lucille, some night party down, as the sun has long sat down, playing dice between the sun and the moon, yes, they throw dice, splitting the price of the garments on the sky, which they have ripped apart and scattered in the fields, where she lays down now
now, now, old she is. old old old. She has spent so many years dreaming of sailing across the water. Sailing into some now sun. Dreaming of getting rich. Rich off of old people, and then to sail a way in a row row row boat.
gold people, gold cold gold, she sought, she snuck, she sung my precious to the no one who was there, and she is dancing now, dancing without a partner any more, all the partners have gone, they've all left down, they pulled the last shades down on the frontpiecs and the churches were no different, the bells no longer ring, and she slowly stops singing
old people, old old old old old.
from Salinghetti Chronicles Vol. 53 Smoke and Ashes tk3: Tracy Chapman "Cold Feet"
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