//Nothing to do anything to//
Pigeons cling together in the rain,
Feeding on the manifest destiny;
The tired death
of daydreams.
The lure of the bed is ever near.
The parade will not pass by.
Heavenly sickness paints
Hell on the wall.
Nothing to do anything to,
I am cloven before the doves on the balcony
[So many swindled moments
laying between so much seed
The sea awaits only for pigs and chicken-shits
under cloud-tossed skies]
Unsure about the bit in brackets. The sardonic tone in the last bit undermines the strength of what came before it I think, but it's certainly not altogether unusable either.
