It's a black sky, with clouds gathering in stacks
to tell you which mood you should be in,
to lift your eyes to the news that the thing
you always thought was unimaginable
was never too far out of sight, after all.
And there the buzzards wisely circle,
tearing the empty meat off the bone
bit by bloody bit, until the truth is laid bare -
a gleaming, sharpened taunt - perfection
amid the rot beneath the devil's sun.
Nothing escapable here. Just the inevitable
drawl of a clock's weakening movements,
the pace that it has kept for the better part
of a century, loud and reliable, slowly waning
to its final, barely audible tick, tock, tick.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Black Keys, The Only One
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