At the start, every idol had a knife in its heart.
Made those works of art and we climbed
up their backs eroding all we could find,
top to bottom.
The walls, they fall, they fall,
not all at once but in spells,
one crumb at a time and we tell
ourselves that things are always the same.
They fade in front of our eyes.
Bottom of glasses turn into tassels,
burning my stomach, deeper destruction.
Impossible phone calls that stretch to the end of the earth,
tedious downfalls, blurring the edge of the fall.
The light in the tunnel is a funnel of booze,
ride it hard down the river, the sail rope a noose
and your eyes so distorted, your words start to lose
any purpose or pattern, asleep in your shoes.
The sequence is subtle and it carries a tune:
all the romance of habit we picked up too soon.
Too late to weep and too early for pride,
so we float down the river, mistakes that we made
and we ride.