letra de november - gabriel kahane
the last we spoke
i sang of end times
of cities washed away
the bloodless halls
of flooded stations
and that last train from la
well three years have p-ssed
and here i am in the waiting room
delayed with all the restless
some sixty eyes fixed hard and fast
on the tv playing something senseless
me, i dream of a broken watch
with hands like vines
and the dream i see the
the sweep of centuries
i am a priest or a bird
and high wandered six lane
it would be generous to call them boulevards
with their dead-eyed metal herd
i have come to peck the faces
all of the faces off of every clock
then set myself to ponder the golden sh-r-s
the clouds, the rotting dock
can you hear the carnival rising?
the brutal fairgrounds aglow
sunburned families laughing at the toy gun game store
someone screaming below
and i want to tell you
about november
the people that i met
and sleeping badly
on poor man pallets
a blue blanket caked in sweat
cardiogram power lines
heart of the department of the interior
glow-in-the-dark casio breathing faster
the last we spoke
i sang of end times
of cities washed away
the bloodless halls
of flooded stations
could a train be an escape?
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