Marty Willson - O'stockholm

With you.
I can see the rain clouds emptying
Little needles leaning to the left
Of you.
And high they fly like burst balloons
Running to the moon
For an airless rest
With you.
I'll slip on the deck of the fishing trawler
Wearing comical yellow
There's fishtails going off like mousetraps,

Nets so many holes yet prisons
Me just in it simply for
The water.
The faces of mountains
Cut with white blood
Stampeding stallions of foam
For you.
To hoof shaped pools
The sparkle of imaginary jewels
That the magician that the
Sun is creates.