Barry lost friends with his grating warning:
“There’s no reason to rise in the morning.”
Nobody listened except for the sun,
Which packed its bags and declared itself done—
“I’ve spent my last day bound up in scorning.”
Barry brought darkness, resentment churning,
Predators hunting with no sun burning.
He counted each battle the sunless won.
Barry lost friends.
In blackest space the world kept on turning,
And to survive, people were not learning,
So Barry said one more thing that would stun:
“I give myself if there’s light for someone.”
None gave him love for the sun returning:
Barry lost friends.
I know a trend that gauche trendy folk buck,
Which won’t surprise as gauche trendy folk suck;
If you like ladies, well, hon, you’re in luck,
For true ladies fashioned don’t give a fuck.
You try to vex them—you grab; they parry.
You won’t perplex them, subtle as a truck.
Fall at their feet and beg them to marry,
But true ladies fashioned don’t give a fuck.
You want to trick them, to subdue their minds,
To show the world you are more than a cuck.
A man such as you in short order finds
That true ladies fashioned don’t give a fuck.
In wowing costume or in mere plain dress,
High-fashioned ladies show weak men their mess.
The eyes in the sky, they’ll be you and I:
Satellites, satellites, circling high,
Mouths in clouds beneath them, breathing in air—
No, you can’t see them—feel that they are there,
Waiting to lick, lap folks up like a fly.
What don’t they see, opened so wide to pry
In lives below, where they struggle and try
To make fools care—they could be anywhere—
The eyes in the sky?
Under their gaze you’ve got no alibi,
Only excuses resigned with a sigh.
The eyes above you all know what is fair,
And their angry beams are enough to scare
Everyone, everywhere until they die.
The eyes in the sky!
Reflections on the asphalt burn
White car white car white car
The curl of the hood
The point of the trunk
The ground glass firmament
Road layer car layer fire layer smoke layer
Black white orange black
Firm broken feeding free
The curl of the smoke
The point of the flame
Bends of metal twist firm
Broken glass on the ground
Reflecting black firmament
Emptied windows frame fire
Black layers framed fire framed layers black
White cars bends of metal
Carcasses ground firmament
The curl the point
Rearranged to burn