Tiny Streams - Psychotic Waltz

Morning sun begins the day

Mothers child has gone away

Locked inside the game that they taught him all to play

Closet city sleeping pretty tired from the day

And if he leaves the tiny porch light dim

He’ll keep the dogs at bay

Snotty little brat he plays

Never puts his toys away

Breaks the ones he’s used if they don’t sparkle anymore

Dollies in the playhouse kissing

All their little heads are missing

Chop their tiny hands with this thing

That’s what daddy bought them for

Red and white’s turned blue today

I laught to dry the tear away

Sitting in my ceilings face

This boiling rainbow webbing places

Smiles soft anger feeling shapes

Of mouths and hands in sonic scapes

Fingers spanning psychic burning

Black sabbath record turning

Pools of vision, understanding

Forms absorb to keep from laughing

Climb the walls, half inside them

Other side, air is thin there

Friends inside pull me to them

Cannot keep from laughing, laughing

Ripples from the portholes making contact

Center bending circles

Growing echoes of each other

Float reflections of this covered consciousness

Inside this eggshell

Masterpieces scattered not well spoken

Yet still undertaken

Tiny streams of orchestration

Flow into this fisheye car ride

Leaning close to catch his good side

Tiny streams of orchestration