The Writer - Even In Blackouts

Comfort is what we need, my baby

Listen and I’ll show you how

The side walk’s the carpet

And the Bushes are the wall

Through the sky last night

He covers his young

The cold blocks the cold wind whistling through

Where the Sidewalk’s the carpet

And the busshes are the walls

The moons his lamp

And the world’s his door

His eyes bleed salt crystal ice

And his hair, deeply swooshing sliced paper cuts

Where the sidewalk’s the carpet

And the bushes are the walls

The moon’s his lamp

And the world’s his door

His young sleeping firmly inbetween

Kneecaps and pockets

Dreams of days resembling life

Where the sidewalk’s the carpet

And the bushes are the walls

The moon’s his lamp

And the world’s his door

Kneecaps and pockets, dreams of days resembling life

«In the morning to the sound of worldfull news, slapping portraits he arises

with his feet to attack.

Like comaraco worms, needles with teeth,

he takes his young into his hand, and folds into a little square and slips it

in his sock.

He puts it in his sock.»

It fits into his sock?

«Oh yeah.»

He then walks away

With one foot

Tapping the pavement

And the other

Kicking up mulch