I was there in the hospital where you gave up, Was it impossible? Like you said so? Did happiness come? I think something awful of what you've become, Was it nice in the calm, like you said so? Did you find love? Did you find anyone? I wish I had died, both then and all along, Like a knife and be less subtle, Push inside, until bone and break it off.
Vast, like oceans, Endless, like addictions to opiates. Nobody cares where you're going, Past, child soldier, Nobody cares where you're going, Feather across the face, Then under the eyes. The night is dark, Sun fills the sky.
Vast: mountains sway, At our age, the brain, Nowadays. Forgetful of things, Mountains sway, Like concepts of outer space. Distance, refrain, At our age, the brain, Under, stands the pain, It never comprehends, Where and what is, It just toils away.
Where did the first seed grow? Plus, who owns it? Monsanto needs to know... for the lawsuit, Above the Earth, also below, Orchards grow. What you reap is what you sow, But, who owns it? You, or someone you don't know? Whose wish is to have your wish, And everything else you covet. Orchard, apples never fall far from, So, they know where to find you, And everything else you love... Orchard, to the Italian restaurant Sold to you at whatever cost, Like internet does to things you love, Nostalgia wears off like a bitter rust. Orchard, what have we done? Orchard, where have you gone? Orchards, and we moved on, Into the distance, back to god. What you reap is what you sow, But, who owns it? Like Cleopatra said to Rome: Above the Earth, so below. Above them both, Orchards grow.
Little bug: Little pigs, Little frogs, Little slug. Finger work beneath civil tongue: Fish supper, friction with drums. A little brother, too big for hugs, A little bit of dust, bits of rough: Personality, but's and cynical plots, Digital work beneath a given tongue. What would you say to me honestly? That you wish I was crushed? Well, I'm not. I lived never thinking of you much. Where is your response? Little love for little bugs, Simple things, inner calm, bigger cause... More concern for grudges, Than writing another song. Give a little time, you give it up... A little pain, a little age, little fun: Singing about doors that are shut, Invisible cuts that the makeup covers, For a while, until the stage goes dark, Then begins your performance, Entertainment to little bugs.
Look to the sky: So cool, white. Like the moon at night, You, in suit and tie, People, when they die. Being alive will prove me right... Look to the interstice: So cool, divine, Like the moon in the sky. You, think of yourself highly, I fear I'll be alone at night. Where does that leave you and I? Basically we are two vampires... Look, I may not know what's right: You say you've died, Like the sun at night, or women when they cry. For advice, I apologize, This time you'll be standing by, The light, I feel, will take your life.
What matters most, When paddling boats? Loneliness, A partner to boast. What matters most, When seeing a coast? Hopelessness, Nowhere to go home. Eternity, being alone, Mercury, being exposed, Attorney, being ignored, Even in war, theatrics unfold, Even when seeking reform.
Where are all your pyramids? You stole my stones... Took my providence. What is a question for? Social dominance? Well stole upon my virulent, Conspiratorial penis and balls. So, stay as born, fisherman, Given, you play with your rod. No limericks or inwardness: Gibberish over impulses, Sickness, et al. Toward the emptiness I fall, Spheres and phallic symbols, Cheers, and then applause.
Belly distend, body groan, Inside you hope for inner growth, Instead, you'll fight in civil court. Doesn't it get a little old? Every night you lock the door, Enter your room, turn the radio on... It's what you know, and fear. Doesn't it seem a little odd? Where was he when you need him? Doesn't it get a little old? Every night, a knock at the door, Enter your room, turn the radio on.... So where was he by morning? Gone? You lock the door, a window breaks, Your father comes, fixes everything, Doesn't it get a little old? Doesn't it seem a little odd? Inside, you hope for inner growth, Instead, you'll fight in civil court.
Acting, unsatisfied. Static, over time. Am I alright? Everyone expires, I reply. As a traffic light, I stop and bathe in red. Still, I'm hanging tight, Still, I lag behind, Final, panting sighs: Fine, then, pass me by. I'd rather be alive than dead... Stand aside? I'll walk as you run one last mile, Even if it's by myself... Why do dusty, static people seem to find me? Am I the twilight in which it shines? Red, Satanic light. Active, social life, Better inside architecture, or the mind. But, then, Wherefore does magic lie? Somewhere before the asking price.
Lettuce beyond where fences meet, Energy drink then vodka or whiskey, Every time, Identity card, receipt. I don't care what it's called, I don't care what it costs, At the end of the song, repeat. Let us be, upon the senses, feeling, Identity play: Sinatra, Springsteen. Every time I vent, it set me free. At the end of the day, I don't care what it's called, I dont care what it costs, In the end, sunsets to dawn, repeat.
You get 'get well soons' But lost one of the duo, Best friends, adieu. In the end, no hero, Ones turn toward zero, Just like one turns to ego, Just like people grow old. For, somewhere over a rainbow, Are untold highs, I'm told.
Blonde moribund wonders in awe, Are you not overcome with thoughts? Dark corners of the mind overrun, What is more wholesome, bit parts, Or the dishcloth wrung out? Mob, tortoiseshell guitar, Small, popular orchestra. Long, golden, charmed, Large parts of the audience hate who you are, Hate your politics and hate your forms. Meet under the golden arches, Maybe as you see the darkness, You'll see nobody around and see you're wrong. Where were your brothers while you were gone? I guess to a sorcerer, blonde, it matters not, People treated like common wristwatches, Only useful to you when you wind them up.
Commit a crime and tell me, Uphill climb, and emptiness, Pills alter the mind, The novels I write aren't helping. I no longer deny blessings, All I had in life is French seams, Red meat and prayer beads. The movie is for the sex scene, Simple child, on empty, Pills alter the mind, Barrels this time, sweat beads. Why can't I, be like a chess piece, Alone, untouched by deadbeats? Webbing is where the spider eats, Domestic things involve police, Collective lives can then convene. A minor piece, A minor key, Minor to the ones who sing, A major deal on my journey, Despite wind, spiders scheme, What is not real is the bodies.
Cage is not just a game that you play with your feet. It’s the Creative Arts of the Global Elite. Champions Clash, Attacking Goals in the heat, while Contenders Advance, Grinding Every defeat. Cunning Athletes Go where the Envied compete, and Courageous Acts Give Every game beat. Clashing All-stars Gather, Eyes locked in the street, with Chains Around, Goals Everywhere they meet. Cageball’s Arena Grants Excellence sweet, as Conquerors Ascend, Glory Endless and sweet.
Where does the red end? Bench press, breath test, Desk chair, ceiling fan: You hope to get to live again. Jump rope, feeling breasts, Best friends, sleeping bags. Then into the night, like assent... That's a life you never lived. Town by town, you lay a brick, Build a house, inhale a bit. Where, from does cedar sprout? Far away from shit like this. How are you about playing music? Cedar necks, hands tight around, Beating skin, women. Beans again, Upon a page then: demons, hell. What is a stranger, to a friend? Follower, liar, charlatan, I would never knew, you were never there.
Hell is where bones conjoin. Fell into boys, resin oil, foil... Paranoid terror, disappointment. What was worse, Your disease, or my point? Multiple choice questions on the medical forms, Your network connections on cellular phones. Joint ventures, a voice credits feminine for, But between the temples the evidence shows. Goodbye are the days, Yellow presence, White, like breast or loin, and yet, still like poinsettia, Red on the inside. Compare your sickness to mine, Hell is where bones conjoin, There to which the feathers fall, Quality of life destroyed, Vaporizer oil, foil, credit card, Paranoid terror, disappointment. The spider bites with sting of poison, Whether on the page or from an arm.
Red, rabbit owner. Filler of the holes, Horror, else. Where do rabbits run? Back to holes themselves... Answers of importance Over Hammond organs, Hare, over tortoise. Whether or not, She understood my poems. Every time the rabbit runs, It ends between cardinal shoulders.