Timid and tame to a tantrum, taken to task stricken lame. Skipping stones, rings on rivers, riding the headwinds home. Standing on sandbanks at sunrise, ribbons of pellucid moons, skipping stones, rings on rivers, tale of the hook and the worm. Digital dreams of disaster, digging in downloaded graves. Share for a prayer, fentanyl phantoms, pixels and pulpits and snakes. Hearts have grown hard to the weakness, minds consume the inane. Cold steel, blunted knife and swarf like rain. Don’t pull me under, I’m not feeling much like a martyr and I wont be cutting grass that never grows. Terminals, so divided so connected. Transmissions cutting the palisade. Ghost of the simplest premise, weathered the face in the stone. Stand here ten thousand years, acting as though you know. Casting your gaze over deserts, calling for simpler time. Wax wings, setting sons, getting there this time. Stare hard, the mirror, the glass, the sea. Reflections of things that should not be, once seen can’t be unseen
supported by 4 fans who also own “Fentanyl Phantoms”
Some old fogeys don't like the 'screaming' music. I might be an old fogey and I love the screaming music. High Tension can scream for me all they want. Richard Weems