Sunday´s intestines

 Sunday was an uncanny bohemian bush fair
Picking up floor dragons and petting ghost dogs
organizing the whole supernatural mess for monday morning
Halls in shadows, my feelings have got fat veins in those shadows
pulsating across the pale planked wooden floors

Being cut into little pieces by the echoes of laughter
Taking the miracle for granted hoping for something to come after
Herds of people not taking the day to reflect just a blink of relaxing
seemingly distracted by a giggle in the galaxy

Dusty seconds being swept up by overzealous ritual and angst
Sunday ripped her dress as she got up to protest, breaking fangs on midnight
And I was reaching for life like a baby reaches for their mother as if one day would save me
The hours were being crushed down into a ball by the afternoon muted raving
Unions greased with hugs even touch sensitive cave, existence requires a certain amount of love
The seventh day has an abundance of slaves

Fat veins out of the wooden sheds that once made up a school house
Our faces pale and aging as sunday growls 

Sunday was like sushi under a surgeon
Like a russian canoe upended by a disgrunteled sturgeon
the cliff edge dwelling herds all began merging
looking down at the inevitable panorama of tomorrow, stiff and allergic
Sunday was going on as you were distracted, simply a giggle in the galaxy