None will take us seriously, when all we can say is nonsense into a blustery wind. How great will be our thirst when finally we stop being idiots. But what fun is our idiocy. What catastrophe is our disheveled minds. Thoughts leaching booze, ideas bloated like overtaxed livers. And all we could summon are stuttering gurgles. Huh.
History says. Dont hope/On this side of the grave./But then, once in a lifetime/The longed-for tidal wave/Of justice can rise up./And hope and history rhyme .. . { seamus heaney, the cure at troy }
spiral scratch
born under punches .. . { talking heads, remain in light }
polyester bride .. . { liz phair, whitechocolatespaceegg }
gin and juice .. . { the gourds, shinebox }
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