Fox's Dream of the Log Flume - mewithoutYou

Provisionally eyed, practically alive, mistook sign for signified,

And so sins have often tried to run him off a cliff like Gadarene swine

Inside my wardrobe seem anchor bent,

Wondering whether we were someone better then…

Or maybe just better able to pretend,

And what better means to our inevitable end?

You know, I don’t know if I know, though some with certainty insist,

No certainty exists!

Well I’m certain enough of this;

in the past fourteen years there’s only

One girl I’ve kissed!

And the blistering heat of the Asbury peer we sat, quiet as monks on the

Ferris wheel.

You’re looking down at the water, down at the sea, I asked her «did that

Ever occur in fantasy?

where you pushed little kids from the tops of the

Ride?"Then she shook her head «no,"I said «Oh, neither do I."And with my Grandma’s ring, I went down on one knee.

And the subsequent catastrophe has since haunted me like a fiberglass ghost

I sent part of me (Like a fibreglass ghost to ask of my inconveniently

Selective memory)

Forgetfully you, mercifully withdrew, all the bearing

Points we thought we knew, days run, days set clock, our calm is shot.

We sailed waywardly on, singing our midnight archer songs until well past

Dawn.

It’s still dark on the deck of our boat, haphazardly blown, broken

Bows, our aimless arrow words don’t mean a thing

Tonight I think it’s pretty obvious that there’s no God.

And there’s

Definitely a God!

I dreamt on the rocks at the asbury dune that you jumped from the top of The log flume

And they gather like wolves on the boardwalk below

They’re howling for answers

No wolf can know I charged at the waves with a glass in my hand

I was tossed like a ball at the bottle stand

And I landed besides your remains on the stone where your cold finger

Wrapped round my ankle bone

Maybe ten feet away was a star, Thousands of times the size of our sun

Exploding like party balloons that we throw darts at Slept until our chest was full of yarn we Spun from Shetland wool.

Socks from where the Dorset grows, sheared and

Scoured hours before the rooster crows.

The price of German silver fell,

Threw this huge tailors down the superstition well.