untitled, in walthamstow

It's fifteen oh five and the sky above is twisting through
focused alleys
pressured walls of tight, rolling air
breathing down life from the leaking fissure of
endless
edgeless
wonder

it's fifteen oh five and Shawn is strumming his guitar upstairs
maybe he uses it's strings to cut himself loose from the
thin lines of humanity that keeps him tethered to
people like me
trying to understand what it's like
I can't, I'm just a little american shit
blasting florescent grey waves of store-bought nihilism
through the plaster ceiling that lays beneath his feet

if only it was cold,
if only I had lived longer and seen the truth of the world
too busy basking in the light of my youth and store-bought wisdom
if only I didn't watch the clock in these moments of
store-bought faith

It's fifteen fourteen and I'm stuck between keys
trying to justify my puppet arms and my kept fingers
licking blue blood from the wounds across my pride

I'm so bad at keeping the time, I just needed to keep it here
here beneath him
ignoring his thick, brutal sadness, as it floods out his window, and through these
store bought ceilings

and his voice
when he sings
he just... gives up

It's fifteen seventeen and
I'm lost between these store-bought keys
dreaming store bought things

and his voice,
nah, he made that himself
and the world made it with him