we dance with spoons and spatulas
forks and whisks and tongs
we use then for their real purpose,
because we know what they're really for...
unnecessarily profane songs
that's why they're in our kitchen
that's why they're in our hands
right where they belong

they're gone
to the south and to the north and then later some east
all packed up
intellectualism and sleep goes great with their whiskey and racket
rolling away
for the thrill

so sing me a song
pick up that guitar
and tiny harmonica
turn on the ***** and whistle along
we'll act like we're great,
*** when we're together, we're great,
sing me the song of our lives

(i am home
goodnight, brother,
i am home)

you were a peace offering
hope for a future
not the future (i devastated)
but the deja'vu i grasped at
jointly confused and at wits over you through
innuendo consumed conversation.

you were hope,
living, breathing, colorful hope
now--
i have to watch you die

i feel like a snake, that has just shed it's skin
new
vulnerable
and as if i've shed something tangible...
probably some inhibition

i wrote you a letter
embarrassed the sender
kept it in my home
that's because it held secrets
the ones that i'll keep in
the ones that keep me alone

you see they'd push you away
just like they knocked you right outta my head
they'd push you away
they'd leave someone ******
and leave someone's heart dead

now back to that letter
frankenstein's letter
filling my fingers with dirt
leaving destruction
fake life with no function
opaque mute unclear and not curt

he said i'm an angel,
or maybe a queen
as he watched me sleep
after he shattered my dream

snap snap snap
"i only use a fast shudder speed"
he once told me
"i only shoot at night"
"i only open my eyes in the dark"
"i only drink whiskey"
"i only sing sad songs"
why?
"well, because i have a broken heart"

they want to talk like home is a remembrance for the future
snapping songs through eyes like they're real
when their boots know they'll sleep unkindly
as whiskey just drinks
and we don't

walking alone from the home i remember
pile of pennies
two years last september
surrounded by friends
it used to be our time
now viral repeated's
the least of our new crimes

i remember when one sip was such a rebellion
now we drink the ocean
hope our lack of devotion
won't put us in coffins alone

i want to talk about pain and confusion and heartache, you know the kind where it sinks and even hurts in your stomach, and i want to talk about dropping bombs and all these songs that keep my boots on. (the heavy kind of boots) i want to talk about icky thump and neutral milk hotel and m.ward, rediscovery, warped vinyls like bowls, useless bowls. i want to talk about how any strength of feeling was stolen from me, and i want to create without fear. i want to let go i want a picnic and i want to day dream about listening to music while laying and wasting summer days to come and the subsequent nights that will burn my brain with memories and thoughts like my tattered quilt.

i want to, but i don't
i want to but it would just be white noise

late, or early
i'll bring the scissors  
you bring the heat
they'll be only our eyes, so
they'll be no puppeteer
because we don't have strings
you're a real boy

i get word in convenience
only sometimes...
not usually
remembered
because quickly warmth is forgotten
leaving the amity flawed

still there are the pictures captured in whispers
smiles and smirks
but not observed
i notice it's when obvious  
only when most eyes are closed
only when predicted and convenient
only when best noted, by none

put on your disguise
smile like there is no wrong
with breaking heart chords