I hate those Voodoo mornings when I cant dig myself out of my own head a relentless quipping chirping anxiety over woulda coulda shoulda wishing I knew better wondering why I dont silent resolutions that evaporate by days end pondering the infinite insignificance of everything that is nothing paranoid that nothing is in fact everything in the doomed hands of a salvation without mercy heavy hearted in the dark waiting for light to peek through the blinds and tell me that its ok to be awake its a lie but thats ok too I guess **** it might as well make the coffee

BUT

I
love
those
hazy
baked
evenings
where
every
thought
is
clarity
or
at
least
the
perception
of
it
guiding
each
seamlessly
to
the
next
and
still
next
after
until
the
next

I'm not the monkey
that turns her *****

Oh

don't get me wrong
I know how to play
I can make that box sing
But it's not my fingers she wants
on the crank
not my head she wants in
that little red cap
not my lips she wants
puffing the smoke behind the leash
and certainly not my hairy ***
she wants
swaying to the tune

No

only one can
grind those gears
only one can
tinker that barrel
only one can
make her hum
proper and true
But in the end
he's just another one
one of us

     little
          monkey
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