Striving for the fortuity that can never be achieved
and wishing for aristocracy,
they called for open fire upon me
and I see the bullets in every mirror reflecting me.
And with some, I share the care of a creator
who spends all the time they have balancing on a cable
unable to understand how anyone can be frugal as me;
and I ask myself, "Do I need to appreciate all of this?"
They won't let me drown while I'm new and shiny.
They won't let me be a statue in a brochure.
They won't let me sleep in the fog.
They won't let me reclaim my beauty.
I only think about today, not the future.
I only think about the key to the door leading to within my cartilage
that is unable to clench us together.
And so I surrender myself to the promenade.
Everything is a contest.
Everything is a ballad for the Z's.
Everything is a fire bolt.
telling me not to absorb the covers.
I'm not agile anymore
because I just deliver them what they yearn for,
without yearning for anything myself anymore.
But I don't want them to rest absently.
The better bodies walk alone.
The better bodies are lying dead in each other's company.
The better bodies are deteriorating
and heading for the better days.
I used to have faith in something,
but now I live in blasphemy,
repeating "hey," and "yeah" and "sure,"
while never acting honorable.
He only cries for me while he's soaring above me,
shedding tears and calling for bloodshed.
But this isn't war because he's not shedding his own blood,
because he knows how to brand me and string me along.
I signal my phantom friends to join my army,
but they're only a clan of desperate nomads like me.
They're my ghost friends that convulse with me,
giving them strength to drain the vital fluid from my enemies.
I am audacious, I know,
because I am arousing every transmission.
These are the my days extinguished.
Let me show you the couple of claws I have left.
And it's no secret that I have a busted soul.
And it's no secret that I want an acceptable acquaintance.
And it's no secret that I would complete the proper process to be a monarch
if I knew how to drain my body of juice and replace it with a wealthier blood type.
So move a little closer to me
so I can show you all the days that are deceased.
And I know you think buzzers are bulky and awkward
but time is up and I'm leaving soon.
I wish you could see that we are familiar cats
rather than beardless lumps of charcoal,
and that if we ran this 5, 280 feet it will be a phenomenon.
So drink from this molded mug and forget about it all.
And I'm gripping to growth by the throat, but damaging nothing
because it's made of caramel candy and doesn't know what saltiness is.
Let me take you to the courtyard where the action takes place
and if action takes place, then we'll let the growth be sweet.
I'm seeing framework from my lonely bench made for two,
and I'm throwing timber into a mountain, ready to light a match.
So come to my party and we'll set the place ablaze
and be a beautiful cremation, burning all the better bodies.
I never wanted it all to burn, I just wanted to drive onward with company in the passenger seat,
but this state of the art exhibit will be killer, I promise, even if everyone is dead.
It'll be the first and last stride.
It'll be better than codeine.
But this city is booming and I can't watch the architecture shrivel.
I'm her hostage and though she cares for me through methods of torture,
I can't help but anticipate her friendship in the afterlife
when we're both lonely without another half, because her twin is leaving her soon.
I miss what this country used to be, with it's jewelry on display in Tiffany windows.
I'm not saying I miss the bloodshed, but I miss the sparkle.
I miss the clubs and the parties and the company.
The bustle is gone, and all there is is the hustle of a crowded desolate boulevard.
All that's left behind is the shame
of hanging around someone else.
I wish I was somewhere else…
I wish I was in Stockholm walking uptown on a crowded desolate boulevard.
I wish I didn't live in a cyclone
with arduous people attempting some sort of hawkish raw coolness
asking me about my mood that they don't care about.
I can tell you my mood is not graceful or charming, but I won't.
And if I described my mood in colors it would be a combination of purple, yellow, red, and blue.
A murky brown seeking rehabilitation.
It won't be long until it rehabilitates, just extract all the light from it little by little until it's blind.
Ain't the way it should be?
This is a darling's rebellion.
This is the siren sounding the start of battle.