Take the fire down.
Ember stealing crown.
Cold and wet and...
Free. Wash it over me.
See the frostbite grow.
Doesn't matter now.
King is watching me.
Why's the rope on that tree?

Profile a man.
What do you see?
Murderer? Cleaner?
Smoker?
Cleaner smoker.
Busybody supervisors.
'he does hoover with extreme vigor'.
'but did you hear about the murders?'

Listening to a pitch,
A business one. A loud one.
It's all the same,
Assault to the ears.
Money thieves,
Slippery tongues, slippery fingers.
Clawing at opportunity.
But no, not you.

He sits in his stupor.
Pooled upon the floor.
Normally, that's how he prays.

He writes his best.
In his centre handed spirograph.
To tell the world how he hurts.

Like the shrinkless rest of us he writes.
The best he knows, the only way he knows.
Honesty and suffering. A man, convicted to the pit.

A paradise for staring eyes
Spectacular show.

But he has no interest.
His talent is his silence.
Spoken through his words.
Wound in his insanity.

Honesty is a bike.
Ridden by everyone, but mastered by very few.

And so he waffles on. Because he loves bikes.

Flashing at the eyes, the TV shows the sky.
Why not go outside? It doesn't flash at the eyes.
Listening to nonessential gibberish,
The TV chunners on.
Why not go outside? It doesn't chunner gibberish.
Looking out the window, the TV shows the window.
Why not go outside.
The TV shows outside.

Cradle swinging
Tarzan bedbound fantasy.
Life support.
Metal clanging.  Make believe.
Janet will see me now.
Ape serves me some tea.
Vines and cigarettes and windows open I can dream.
Mattress cuddle.
Sunrise soon.
Breakfast served may as well *****.

Would you like a cup of tea my dear?
Yes, past boiling, to burn my lungs.
Jasmine or lemon?
Both.
Lemon jasmine lung buster coming right up.
With sugar?
No.