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It came up from the wetlands, under Waverly Hill
It came, quiet and crazy, then it stood perfectly still
It stunk of the tunnel, it stunk of dying too young
It had ash on its eyelids and it had snow in its lungs
and the evening came running, like a slave at its beck and call

Its girls hide in letters, and they play in its halls
Its boys sleep in garbage, and they come when they’re called
It, cringing, comes at you its teeth chattering in time
It cracks at its sternum, and it’s light of its mind
It whispers and worries, as the vandals on watch unwind

It fell at Wood-haven, and lay splintered and cold
on a heavy foundation, sinking into the soil
It stinks of the tunnel, and its casts are undone
It’s got ash on its eyelids, it’s got blood on its tongue
So in a bed of old rafters it takes the wind to its lungs and howls…

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from The Girl in the Window, released July 29, 2011

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Mark Lenover

Through a distinctive fusion of folk, rock, theatre and electronica, Mark Lenover critically examines pop culture’s ubiquitous influence, its moral philosophy and the potentially devastating effects of drug abuse and mental illness. His recent work frequently challenges an increasingly pervasive culture of celebrity, self-indulgence, distraction and desire. ... more

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