dust on the bottle

to tell you the truth, i think you're crazy,
hanging all around on circumstance
forgetting to drain the shower,
drinking as quickly as possible

in the summertime,
ba do bee do ba boo,
when the will of wine
has it's grip around you

in the night time
you've got typing
you've got typing on your mind

writing off the written off
making yourself, rotating,
simply repeating what the thunder said

and in comes the explaination
scarf and pipe,
smoking what he likes
waiting for no one,
leaving no one waiting
belonging to nobody
(there is no reason beside ourselves,
it's a great fiction, rooming with rights,
right religion and allknowing)

i've got him captured. so do you,
in your own wanders through and through,
wading slow in morning's hue
catching toes of sprinkled dew
barely missing autumn flu,
the place you'd found, and swore you knew
given its own breath, and beyond all grasp of recognition

i know why it makes you sad
to miss the answers you designed,
tame and blessed, stained lightly
with the subtle tones of older wine

i'll come to bed soon, sliding in the coldish toes
wake up, and remember nothing we wrote
or drank or smoked
curled stretches move my head just enough
to catch the small white patch perched
beneath a looming blackbird
on the tree that shades my sleeping from sun.