There is a house in my head, and in it lies the gun.
There is one bullet, and it’s meant for me.
But it’s in the basement, under Styrofoam sheets.
I run to my mother, and I ask for a crucifix –
She answers me adequately, by hanging me from her cross.
There’s no one else in the house, but I run for daddy.
But he’s dead, and he’s gone. And that’s it, and that’s done.
I had a brother, but he is immersed in his own fight.
He’s broken his head on the light, and now he’s bleeding profusely.
I’ve taken pills with him, but now he’s catatonic.
I used to think of him, but now he’s just demonic.
There’s poison in the cupboard, and my symbolism lies within.
I drink to think, but the dark just won't give in.
There is a metaphysical jitter. Brother, possessed in the din.
Father, in his lucid little lie. How he tries and he tries.
Mother throws herself at God and asks for no more reprimands.
She calls spirits and has cats and wakes the dead but ignores the living.
And now I’m reminiscing over the repetition of my lies, my life, my highs.
By night the skeletons come out dancing, and corneas turn red-gold.
There’s a devil in this domain, and that's why the floor's so cold.
My father’s father tried to **** his son’s mother, and now he tries to find another in every other.
A sister was shocked to hell in an electric shock therapy cell.
Pills and pills and pills and pills and thrills and thrills and thrills and thrills.
Welcome to the House of Perdition.
Won't you stay a while?
C'mon, drug a child?
Take a seat please.
Ignore the deceased, please,
And feel free to slap the idle hands of the diseased.
Here I stand - beheaded child. Chanting, oh mother. Tell your children not to do what I have done.
I have killed in the House of Perdition.
Everyone.