The cloud, ruptured by rage,
spills from his mouth,
a sprout of prate.

By the fountain at night
he cools the lightning
boiling growls in the knuckles of blades

and a wind under the ground
tweedles
ah, ah, ah!

She digs deep into his grief
to clear the deadly disease
stuck to the breast of tomorrow's bottles.

Hurry, hurry, don’t miss your canteen,
it rolls down the mountain
with the avalanche dancing with the defeat

of the naked, icy climber
burned by bubbles
digging screams in the chuckles of graves.


© 2015 Randy Haddock

Knuckles of Blades

Hi. My name is Randy Haddock. These are some of my demos. I hope you like them.

Email: ranhaddock@gmail.com

Surf, compose, repeat - サーフィン、作曲、リピート 💙 🌊