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Grey MAG
The eyes in the wallpaper
Are really grey.
The springs in the guns
That lie rusting in the reservoir
Are really grey.
The lids on the thermos bottles
Which hide in the warmth
Of the underarms of schoolchildren
Are really grey.
The ants on the sandwich
That fell to the hot sand
From the hand of the crippled girl
Whose mom gives her cupcakes and milkshakes
Are really grey.
The cobbles in the alley
That hid the group of convicts
From the storm of policeman pellet guns
Are really grey.
The twisted flowers of springtime
Which stand alone in the garden
In the middle of the city
That houses half the world's people
In its one little arena
Which is cleaned by a house full of servants
Who make love in the backs of Ferraris
While their kids sit home and play Nintendo
With the kid who invited himself over
To annoy you and your neighbors
Are really grey.
The pistons in the engine
That moves the brazen pigeons
Around and around the sculpture
That stands alone in the dirty night street
Which is littered with papers and handbills
That tell of murders, & CDs, & hamburgers, & philosophies
That can make you a better human being and plus reform you
By taking your mind and plunging it
Ridding you of the worries of a modern society
Which ties its teachers to time bombs
And lets its streets be littered
With papers, and pamphlets and handbills
Are really grey.
The three triggers on the H-bomb
That rests on a ledge with two pigeons
Overlooking a city outside of Las Vegas
Where the people always wave morosely
At the soldiers passing through on the fast trains
Who have wives and sisters and mothers
At home eating rice in their bedrooms
Are really grey.
The fittings on the lock-plates
That hold the weights on the wires
That pull the elevator to coat closet
That is the secret escape of the President
Who knows the fate of the world
And hopes he can get enough time
To protect his family from it
Are really grey.
The buttons on the lapel
Of the tuxedo rented from A-J's
Before the city was burned and buried
By an unforgivably erroneous of action
By a priest who was going to the wedding
Of the rabbi and his maid
Who eloped to Utah last summer
Before the plague wiped out the cattle farm
And left only rotting corpses
Are really grey.
The blood stains on the parchment
Of the crinkled skin of the big old woman
Whose last words were heard by the rats
Which scampered up the cracking wall
While from tail up their bodies disintegrated
In the heat, the light, and the fear
That eight years of political consternation
Brought to half the world, and its President
Are really grey.
The eyes on the tadpole
Whose tail was frozen in the tar
That was once the road to the stadium
Where the soldiers would march with their colors
Lifted by the wind soon to be choked with dust
Of the feet women and their children
Which were removed by the blades of the traps
And licked by the tongues of whiteness
That tasted the walls of the city
Which was built on the ruins of the palace
That once held the Queen of the World
Are really grey.
The pills in the bottle
Which is clutched in the dead hand
Of the woman with the glasses
Which covered her deformed eyebrows
Are really grey.
The words written in boldface
On the poster at the steel mill
Where the other boys play real games
Are really grey.
The stones in the river
That runs by leper home
Are really grey.
The people in the picture
Are really grey.
The sky and the land are really grey.
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