we are the field, we are selfsame, we are batched so small
radio-eyed, othered, lost out
shame I missed this generation, cut me, it growls on a good system
that song does
still want that dark strobe smoke
ab chic acrid square in the wall
what a goose bumper heart heard it and got shutters
the singing kind of reminds me of
has choir of women a bit like in love or winter water song with the man that
despises it and a sentence hi speaking my brain sun hadn’t broken yet, pure class all
analogue driving acid lines there’s the o
we’re the riffling of dusk and the equation of dusk, its whereabouts
we’re a weathervane of faith/unfaith/faith
mixed-up and gone old
and autre don’t give me a shortcut thing
like brick, war and battery by the stack
see our blood—the snow as rose-pink or the carpet black