The Empire Keeps Proving Assange Right About Everything

changing, not quite metallic
singing sinking storming
tangled lonely smoke, your visions
ringing broken promises of healing in my ears
i run to you run from you run
who are you, and why
why is a bird?

and a soul, you say? so ...
is it a thing, like a rock or an dented cup?
you think it is
you think it can be bought and sold like fear
but when i ask you: with what coin?
you ride silence

a thousand strands of filament lavender
bind this living information called "i"
your forgotten sorrows
your laughter and logic of the void
you steady taurus touch
hot and strong...

logic and laughter both
are scarce these days, on my street
my serious eyes see silver flashing deep clouds
and i lie without intention, drawing you in
drawing you into being
and i want to box my ears and paint my eyes
the color of glass and fragility

sometimes i jump into fire
never knowing
now i ask, to somewhere inside:
is truth even right for you?
slow warnings float through time
a whisper a tickle a song for the dead
boundless hearts, buckets of wet sand
as proof against small roads

decay meets doubt
on a scared and starving road
i walk on, feeling your shimmering
unconscious incantations
already i know
no need to pull the curtain
i want to take the trident and tangle saturn's beard
and laugh, laugh so hard!
as imps of time and season fall out angry
(they live in saturns beard; what? you didnt know?)

but even as i i dance with you
one night, a few nights
i build a secret silken wall and soon
i'll sit inside, pretending not,
thinking back to when the sea took the shape of eros
then threw that form away before my eyes

you once hunted ghosts
for money