cLOUDDEAD Follow

"From the height of the highway onramp we saw,
two dogs, a-dead in a field,
Glowing on the Oakland colliseum green seats wasteland,
Dogs, dogs we thought were dead,
They rose up, rose up when whistled at,
Their rib cages inflating like
men on the beach being photographed,

A guard dog, guard dog, for what? for what?
Against overzealous penniless athletic fanatics,
Getting into games through a hole in the fence,
For the owner of the blue tarp tent,
Pitched by a creek beneath an onramp,

In the privacy, of the last three,
Skin and bony trees, devoid of leaves,
And us undeceased, and with our new CDs,
Zippin' on dead east, Oakland

It's hard to stand the sight of two dogs dead
under a sky so blue,
You have to stop the blood to your head,
to fit the breath in front of you,

We secretly long to be some part of a car crash,
Long to see your arms stripped to the tendons,
The nudity of swelling exposed vein,
webbing the back of your hand,
To be a red tendoned dog,
To be red tendoned dogs,
Blood breathing by the side of the highway

I long to be dead,
center of a curious crowd,
To be touched,
sticky like nearly dried paint,
Their soft silent stare, nursing your face,
Anticipating the slightest pinch I flinch of pain,
Everyone blank in accident awe,
as the car crash fiberglass dust,
straight up settles on your raw muscle tissue

It's hard to stand the sight of two dogs dead
under a sky so blue,
You have to stop the blood to your head,
to fit the breath in front of you,

To be a red tendoned dog,
To be red tendoned dogs,
To be red tendoned dogs,
To be red tendoned dogs,
To be dead center of a curious crowd

Against my misery I don't think I've seen my screeching pain, I can now feel what's around us. It is some sort of harmony, the harmony of overwhelming murder"