Grand Finale.

Contest: Name the author of this quote, without using the internets to figure it out. This is, and has always been, the most poetic album ending I have ever heard. Suits me well to end on this note.


She's got a sword in case
though this is not her lord in case
the one who can't afford to face her image
is restored to grace.
Disappeared. No trace.
Mustky tears. Suitcase.
The down turn brave little burncub
bearcareless turnip snare and rampages
pitch color pages....
down and out but not in Vegas.
Disembarks and disengages.
No loft.
Sweet pink canary cages
plummet pop dewskin fortitude
for the sniffling black noses that snort and allude
to the dangling thrinkets
that mimic the dirt cough go drink its.
It's for you.
Blue battered naval town
slip kisses delivered by duck muscles
and bottlenosed grifters
arrive in time to catch the late show.
It's a beehive barrel race.
A shehive stare and chase
wasted feature who tried and failed to reach her.

Embossed beneath a box in the closet that's lost.
The kind of thing you find when
you mind your own mysteries.
Shiv sister to the quickness
before it blisters into the newmorning milk blanket.
Your ilk is funny to the turnstyle touch bunny
whose bouquet set a course for bloom without decay.

Get your broom and sweep
the echoes of yesternights fallen freckles
....away..