Bloated and summer
Don't know that I can say the start to the finish of it
I still have yet to come to some term with what I can and what I have ready
Mornings are fine, afternoons grow forward grotesque
Where's there some edit, some pen in hand to shape present as it's lived?
Any one cut seems far too monstrous, far too quickly
So that none is never made
Right back to start,
And so
we continue and we boil
And nothing much seems to change besides date and weather.
But rolling, some new comes to mind.
New avenues, new songs and new angles
New energy, new projects, new faces, new conversations, the next beer
New numbers, new rhythm, a new line.
If this can't be new than nothing else,
Can't we start someday?
Fresh as we're old, ripe as the calendar states
Permanent as the cigarette.
Malleable as candles in cake.
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