Dead TV channels and corn puffs on floor like skinemax and taxes on the poor
Stained coffee tables and sunlight through the glass pane door
The aftermath of ****** and scores
All of us have some kind of drug in our veins and pores

That ***** outdoor patio, with the edgy tattooed girls
Where we used to turn over chairs to find pearls
The 90% would always put us into a swirl
The moonshine would always help us unfurl

Saints on high our porches rumble
Where secrets held are worse than those under the Vatican’s
But we’re as dead as the mannequins
And we’re lost to our ambitions that we humble

Like kindred souls around a fire we lost ourselves to gravity
Our mornings filled with sweet nothings, our nights with serendipity
Where we found peace and home in entropy
In the lull of a dogtown in the middle of the world

Let me tell you a story that’s told, a place that’s dark and filled with brimstone
A place that can feel hot or cold, a place where brightness can unfold
Where men abroad are worn thin, some seem to think about little else, but skin
And as they walk their walk and talk their talk what they truly want passes like a gust of wind
The body and mind are acutely fixed, they lose their footing, they’re crossed and tricked
Head strong yet clumsy, tempered like an iron bar, these men will tell you what they think from afar
No real who’s, what’s, where’s or know how, their tongue trebles, it declares, without care or clarity, it cracks like a snare
Preaching strong and wide and broad like the big churches of St. Sinclair singing songs throughout outdated speakers, oh god
The opinions of shepherds are often the rumors of sheep, trapped in gossip like the bonds of viral news excused for tweets
They wear it on their arms and nationalize their pride all while being humble, they claim, but knows not who it harms
They make a point to point fingers for points overwhelmed with the poignant denial they pass off as practical
Cracking irony with their minds white washed from the wash and their thumbs I mistake for calloused ******
This human condition we oft’ know well, is dying right under our nose
Medicine won’t help those who are only concerned with what happens above or below

Stapled in blue light harmony, I abuse my silence, thinking in a way that could be construed as past tense
Slaved to my sand castles that were taken by waves
I'm a kid on the beach giving way to tourists' enclaves


Seaworthy and daft I **** my own gun, a habit I tell you is nothing but fun
I smoke myself to death on this boat that lies rest to my wake
Waves I've created I tell myself I'm obligated to break


I promise the hinges of my door are stressed for holidays sake, and everybody's got a piece of advice that they need to take
It's always as transparent as wishing on a birthday cake


There is no salvation in my morning slumber, whether I hear birds chirp or horizon rise
Car sounds are just as good of an alibi
As childhood dreams are for validating highs

The midnight voice that sings me to sleep
I hear is often accompanied by coffee stained eyes
Her nights end with a mug full of water and a sleepless tongue broken with sighs

She rattles at my door in the wee hours of the night, and I talk to her quiet till I don't hear a peep
She becomes the shepherd and I the sheep, as I jump over fences to get her to sleep

She wakes up every day with her nights forgotten and her days brand new
What she doesn't remember is out of the corner of her mouth slipped "I love you"