The Drowning Dream

Well our dogs get along, but have you noticed how easy 
Evil dialogues of ours come out of wanting, 
For so long, an easy laughter, to feel guilty for some

Throw us in the oven where the angels fly, 
They still need to eat 
She's clean, she keeps a clean house, she can cook alright, 
But I no longer have meat 

In the middle of the field at the height of the eclipse, 
When all that we could see were the fiery whips 
Of that hot-headed god, hot-headed god and wild, 
Perpetually running from his wife and child 

I was born in the bottom of a boat, 
Of glass between the sea and me 
Upward from the floor they'd float, 
Bodies from the drowning dream 

What do you make in the furnace of your chest? 
The same as she makes in the locket of her breast. 
Here's where the buds in the coal-chocked tomb go hard, 
Clear and deadly and never ever bloom 

There were fifty-four people in the back of a truck, 
They were only sleeping 
When we come to pick them up, 
Safe within our keeping 

Sixty-eight bullets for my wife and I, 
They will never be satisfied 
Strength and purpose fringed by fire, 
Fire I was born in the bottom of a boat, 
Of glass between the sea and me 
Upward from the floor they'd float, 
Bodies from the drowning dream.