Death Of The Party

She used to be an American airline
Through hotels/parallels
Of the far out moon

Still being watched by the pipe smoke contingent
From creameries extremeries
And you won't leave soon

She drives like an exodus
Slow to the steeple
And her touch is sad
The cold room is clean
And it's distant from people
But the bugs are bad

She is alone never off to the races
She is pulled by lumbering dogs
Being chased by beasts

For the foodstuff of dreams
Clay ralls melting
Like at earthman equator
Blobs of light
Ripped from spiraled ceilings
And now there's no place to climb
Not a place

Tear it alive
I am always Inventor
And cry so suddenly
And I laugh so loud

And the cry is small