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Фотография  Crematory (photo  Crematory)
   

Parakeet

готик-металлическая группа



You wake up in the morning

and fall out of your bed

mean cats eat parakeets

and this one's nearly dead.

You dearly wish the wind would shift

and greasy window slide

open for the parakeet

who's colored bitter lime.



Open the window

and lift into your dreams

lately, baby

you can barely breathe.



A broken wrist

an accident

you know that something's wrong

you fold the leavings of your past

no one knows you've gone.

The sunspot flares of the early

nineties light up your wings.

And scan the shortwave radio

it's tracking outer rings.



The techtonic dispatcher shifts

to smooth the ocean floor

and flattens out to warmer winds

of Brisbane's sunny shore.

Where Buddhas tend to mending wrists

a tea made from the leaves

of eucalyptus fragrances

and coriander seeds.



You wake up in the morning

to warm Pacific breeze

where mean cats chew licorice

and cannot climb the trees.



Open your window

and lift into a dream

baby, baby

baby starts to breathe




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