S.W.B. & Otis

window happens made hand bright math repetitions bland vacancy boundary against animal

i see thru the window of your old soul
what happens when they get that close?
you weren't made for making connections
your hand wasn't made to hold


isn't it bright, and isn't it lucky
that no one here can do the math
they fail to see your murderous repetitions
and you keep so bland
but there is no vacancy behind your eyes

i will cross the boundary of your stare, though
i've got nothing against being afraid
or coming unglued and wild, like an animal