The Valley

We watch the sun switching in the sky, off and on, where
 our friend stands bleeding on the late summer lawn, a
 slicked back bloody black gunshot to the head. He has
 fallen in the valley of the rock and roll dead.

 I hear a breeze that wheezes through the tips of the pines,
 where there's laughter and screaming to the rafters in the
 night. The moon rolls dreaming through the late spring
 sky, where our friend lies bleeding through his jacket and
 tie. slit throat makes a note like a raw winter wind. We
 were piled in the river with the rock and roll skinned.

 Like the water loves lapping at the skin of the shore, hear
our friend come tapping at the latches on the door. Like a
 foot slips, slapping on the ladder's last rung, we were
 thrashing in the clatter of the rock and roll hung.

 It's just a loud crowd crush. It's just a thrush, seen flying
 through the late autumn dusk for the very last time. It's
 just a busted-up body in the dust of the last road out of the
 city, when the city explodes. Light grows, and the light
 grows bright, and red-tinged. We were fallen on the
 border with the rock and roll singed. Times ten. Times
 ten. Times ten. Times ten. Times ten. Times ten. Times
 ten. Times ten. Times ten. Times ten.