Floodraisers
dragged from grey waters
dragged from war's hungry mouth
there's a door on top of a birch tree
point me to the checquered carpets
on the roof of the albino hearse
point me to the playhouse building
where we can watch
noir movies on a saxophone
point me to the fireworks in the mist
and bury me up in the cellar
under the highway or the ocean floor
where fly riders turn
into floodraisers
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