January River

6:52 in the lights of the dusk,
You were making those juices,
Making a fuss,
Of the angels in white robes,
And detoxed stethoscopes,
You echo the silence,
The neck of the violence.

The man or the woman,
In white black suit,
Wings so fine,
They take daughters,
And maybe your mind,

And the uncertainty,
Drove you far to the sea,
Buying blankets for no one,
That no one would buy,
Ask the man on the tall chair,
He knows what he's trying to do.

It's the river, it's spring and it's painful,
The beached and the sinned,
The righteous and doubtful,
The way that they summon the walls to the roads,
Oh the biggest road ever,
To pave off the coasts.

The suited females,
With long-beaked precisions,
And odd indecisions,
Easy as deafness,

The God with a two kilometre,
Circumspecting width,
His glaze is a gift,
He was black to begin with,
And now he's copper tin.

The city of God,
Forgot nothing to,
The art of a fight,
The art of a ten-buck two,
Impoverished feelings,
Impoverished dues,
You live life on the ceiling,
The floor's too festooned,
With money and goons.

And you walk on the bridge,
Of troubled rapids,
You walk on the sides,
To make sure you've had it.

And no you're just nine,
You've had your ins and out,
But your out all the time,
Is mother really waiting,
It's ten o'clock nine now,
Does anyone gives a damn?

The portent of humidity,
The loss of a sanctified community,
The linings in clothes of the grievance,
You wear it with pride, and you stroke it all night,
To the minute of forgetting sons,
Yeah the suited man took him with lack of guns.

And these January rivers,
With weary inked eyes,
They'd sell your their fruits,
And they'd sell you their wives,
Like a pagan in Vatican,
A road in Mongolia,
You should've asked em,
Instead I would see ya,
In rags or a bag of incense.

Underwater surprises,
Surprising demands,
They said man we're just trying to clean,
But without the mop you're a fiend,
Everyone's money,
And money is none,
So the math of it's scary,
And not the least fun,
In the stuttering view of a nun,
Under the crime of not owning a gun.

Your daughter is home,
At last,
A fever or spots,
And torturing gasps,
She's just whiter than ever before,
The pram took her ego and more,
Chained to machines,
Clinically deceased and clean.

Sleepless nights,
Sleepless vigil,
Stream of lights,
Stream of a kill,
Walk the streets,
Money in mind,
Again I think that would be find,
But we're driving off the main road again,
Too much lighting, too few of a trance.

How can such a river so still,
Hide a home of a murderer's chill.