we were standing on the platform and my teeth were solid set
dead against any opportunity for man and woman threats
and connections between people and the offers to be made
and the individual qualities that develop different shades
and levels of music played and the music isn't a song
I'm hearing, screaming is the broken dial and radio still on.
the cubicles aren't in our offices, their riding shoulder width
and all of us aren't beings, more telephone poles in the mist.
the anxiety that churns my ego and plays the fisted bully to my id
is coming down the tracks and I know that something's going to give
and we're holding hands, and you're pretty eyes do mean well,
but I also know the smile is just tape on the face of a shell
that's telling me we're splintering in the grip and somehow still
believe the thing we have is nothing like a thing you someday will
and every smiling face and every passing eye in space
is one more suggestion of your better time and better place
and I'm staring down the barrel at the cherry and smoke's curl
and I'm feeling their all symptoms of a new and greater world.
