All the mysterious money of a dreamers debt, spent in pursuit of rain
that isn’t wet, from the garden of Eden to apocalypse drawn and
drained, jealous millionaires count the drops every time it rained, and
pointless fortunes raise the sea levels ego, and she follows mocking
direction which ever way we go, the meaning of light consumed in the
definition of darkness, like a ghost fits the frame of an ideal carcass.
The mothers milk of the babies cry, the heartbeat of heaven pumps the
blood of the sky.
A window to the soul of superficial saviors, the ruins of payday where
paradise labors, it’s the difference between a fix and an overdose in a
junkies vein, it’s how a cradle of clouds turns into an ocean of rain,
brush is just the body; color the soul of the paint, yet we worship the
deeds of this superfluous saint, in that crucifixion of sleep where the
dream gets a little to real, and we lip sync the alphabet and kiss
The clock of an idea spends the time of money, rain is the spice of the
watered down honey.
And monuments of rain spread the ocean’s cancer, it’s a hungry
destiny draped in the weathers disguise, it’s a dream of a question and
a dictionary of an answer, the axis dislocated the whole plot turns
weather wise, tomorrow puts up with the petty demands of today, in a
transfusion of sterility means become a whore to the end, will has been
sacrificed to the way, but this new weather pattern is just following the
radar’s trend, while the history of banks brilliantly told in subway
hieroglyphics, the code of all fortunes lie in the market flux of the rain,
and the teller she fondles the hands on clash of specifics, and makes
plans for her spiritual tax exempt merger with Cain.
A cloud is feeding it’s thirst over the ocean, crystals of essence divine
and fortunes unfolded, the wind fills it’s kitchen and confers it’s
stirring motion, and the god of tides is summoned and metamorphicly
From a beach a tellers eyes sees the waste of rain in the ocean, but a
dreamer sees the difference between the debt and the loan.