Text: Subtle. Swansong Meat.

I suppose, when you wake up
And the dream you goes dodo?
You will find, in your front pocket
One of those stubby golf pencils?

Convincing living,
That you, yourself is convinced of living?
Till your kidneys can?t clean the convinced
out of your true blue blood stream.

And are you not now, professionally hoodwinked.
An easy street penis throbbing down breezy streets.
In a b-line like, easy like, bees like, broke down ice-cream truck?s leaks?

You see,
However so slightly permanent,
these have been things sung?
That will never be songs.

Oh I suppose
Not swansongmeat
Nor bit nails spit
with strips of skin
from chicken?s lips?
not wet concrete
or stolen sleep,
when the water is sheets
and bleeding sheep.
Hung horrible hymns
to a durable beat
and re-recordable grief?