Free me from the crystals I have curved
that are rushing back to me... ready to roll over me.

Save me from this thicket of trees
that have planted me into the ground like a gravestone.

Rescue me with this key made from my own skeleton,
because this love is gruesome, locking me behind skeleton bars.

I have pleaded.
I have pilfered.
I have pawned.

My love is a man in drag,
disguised and uncertain.

Forgive me for not appreciating.
Forgive me for not learning.
Forgive me for not knowing.

Help me broaden my stride
because I'm lagging behind.

Don't leave me on the outside,
because my soul is eternally internal
and longs for the warmth of your dazzling vivid silver lies.

I'll free my love
I'll save my love
I'll rescue my love
I'll plead with my love
I'll pilfer my love
I'll pawn my love
I'll forgive you, my love
I'll help you, my love
I'll leave you, my love
     if you demand.

I've been planted awake
with my eyes locked,
awaiting the moment
when my memories revolutionize
into a fantasy.

I am the moon...
     watching over the world
     and making things cold...
          preparing life for the warmth of sunrise.

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.

It's as if I'm Poseidon
as I lay beside him.

I'm an earth-shaker,
a love maker,
heart taker,
and a staker of the ocean.

Concealed amongst a flock of lambs,
I tamed the horses
and I tamed my man.

But I am the mighty Poseidon
as I lay beside him
and drown him in my sea of deceit.

Squeeze, pull, and twist.
Someday it won't hurt.
You can test me all you want.
But I'll always be unsure
of the pain.

I'm fly by night;
brief, unreliable, and shady.

Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.

Danger occurs
beneath the tongue,
where words are drowned
by selfless saliva.

I'm always
turning the wrong nozzle,
looking for heat.

I'd rather look out for you
than look at you.

You only realize
you need company
when you're alone.

I'm independent.

I've never been independent.

Leave me alone.

I'm lonely.

Anger.
Pop up.
Relient.
Shove.
Assertive.
Glare from the sun and a face.
Pat pat slap slap.
Fight through.
Shove.
Climb.
Overcome.
Dump from above.
That's all it is.

You have a short
attention span but
that doesn't mean
what happens
minimally
is not beautiful.

Notice the details
as the universe
lays them before you.

You're ****** unless
you do a ton of blow.

Examine the spit puddles
you made on the floor
you walk on
because they'll be gone
by morning.

Why is your face
on the ground
if your head
is heaven?

Funk is just a mixture of jazz and hip-hop.
Jazz is just a mixture of ballet and modern and funk.
Modern has a little ballet in parallel with release.
It's all the same to me.
It's movement.

That bobbin' buzz
kills me.

But I'm still buzzin'.

I look back.

I know what I did.

I know that I'll do it again.

I know that I'm no good.

My heart left
without me.

Existing in a stratosphere full of a familiar twilit breeze,
I reign down on my enemies.
I'll plant them in my sanatorium
and tuck them nicely into bed,
leaving them to gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling.

Because they all say I'm crazy--
but they don't know of all the things
that have died from my hospice embrace.

So they'll gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling
missing everybody they know,
and seeing beauty in the
placid birds floating past their mental window.

I'll still give them the birds.

This is a shout out to this season
and its amused ****** expression
as it taunts me and my need for a fix.

I can't wait
to not live in a morgue.

But I seem to be
all the time.

If anyone is looking for a neck-rub,
today's the time.
Dead guys don't seem to enjoy them
these days.

I miss the feeling of
fuzzy animals rubbing against my leg
and my heart
and all the other happy feelings.

The killers are callin' on me,
and when I realized it
there was a **** ton of screaming
by only one person.

And I used to be sick
of my new apartment
because it was an empty barrel
that made the loudest sound.

And it looks like we cracked
a second after
I crawled into my hole,
not understanding why
anyone would want me
like a big deal.

I'm not interested in a great first show
or keeping my friends close.

I'm just interested in the evils in my life.

Posing upon a pedestal
bare and broken.

See my silhouette
in the spotlight.

Life isn't La Vie En Rose
anymore.

Just a slumber party duet--
naked upon the rock bottom floor.

I don't feel like
any kind of person.

I'm a fan,
letting all the ashes rush.

I'm a fan,
but not an addict.

I'm a fan,
creating movement of the wind.

I'm a fan,
but not an enthusiast.

I'm just trying to show people
how things are;
not how they should be.

I'm unique.
I'm too unique.

I'm a mover
and there's movement everywhere.

Move with me.

You ask me why,

but I never know anymore.

Do you realize
it's so lunar?
Making sounds that don't form words.
And I've tried out the consonants more than once
and all I can hear is the silence--
      louder than any sirens.

Do you realize
that although there's a cyclical melody never ending
I still only hear the silence?
Be my knight in white satin...
     but you can never pull off such an airy fabric.
Even though we're both so lunar,
    we are different oddities in different frequencies.

Do you realize
any of it?

But it doesn't matter
because nobody knows
and nobody cares.

But I guess I'm witit.

My body imprisons liquor
creating a shelter for it's
greatest admirer,

because the emptiness of my reasoning
cannot relate to those who were given swelling hearts,
because my heart was created to expire.

And all of the places I retire to
will not be like the night
when all the light was liquified.

This is my ode to severance
and my ode to sesame chicken,  
and my ode to walking on a frigid evening.

I've been to St. James' Infirmary
to hide away
where my suitor put a bullet through me.

These days I'm a ghost,
and haunting is a hindrance
to the acid-burnt hole in my
transparent tongue
that longs to be able to lick
the sharp side of a knife.

But I sit in St. James' Infirmary
because I'm sick to my stomach
and sick to my brain.

I'm not the hero of this story
because all I found was a darling
that I didn't wish to cherish.

The darlings will all go to New York or somewhere
to escape from being buried alive
in this cemetery I've been digging up
for as long as I can remember.

I assume I'm just in appreciation
of the walkmen making their journey
from my home to the heart of Louisiana
or somewhere.

I am an onyx bird of unusual beauty
with a vision of being ceaseless.

I'm the dark horse without a fan club,
shining bright black.

We're danger stalkers
searching for the modest
at dawn in the garish part of this metropolis.

And my soul sprints
when everything is secure and sane,
and I want to stalk the danger again.

So I make meager attempts at blackmail,
to attempt to satisfy all the charmers like me
frozen in the frigid north.
because discipline is gobbledigook
in balmy compartments.

I have a charcoal rosette
taped to my chest.
Is it honorable?
It calmly smolders my heart
at this banquet with all my company.
I leave nonchalantly at the hazy end of the night,
-casually slip on my gloomy boots-
and build up my wails for creatures.

I love the heinous beasts
and stories of lad meets lady.

Where's the chick habit
that's supposed to be clinging to me?
I don't have some chick habit of believing that
there's meaning to loving someone.

So come along, bro.
My love is your worst homie.

Bang bang bang.
I **** you.
Bang bang bang
I *******.

I'm a burnout,
burnt to the ground...
and I'm taking the forests with me.

And your the plastic decorations
that melt to the ground
in the aftermath of my flames.
I wish I could melt with you,
but my body is already made of ashes.

And the things I find morose have changed
from being suspended from classes
to just breathing and spending money...
and smacking *******' *****.
If you should try to kiss her,
remember that she'll soon turn to ashes.

And while we're young
we'll forget about the explosions.
Because she's always the new thing
and if you light her up she'll just be
a display of fireworks to you.

And I'm searching for the harvest within myself,
so that for once I can make things bloom
destroying them with an exploding boom.
mais la nuit est jeune
and it will always be young.

*So we wash and dance and showcase ourselves
using symbols like roses and arrows.

My whisper is a high pitched scream,
I can never seem to be soft enough.

And I've never been a lover of books
but I love what they've done for themselves.
And I've never been a lover of poetry,
but I'm an author and lover of words.

So kiss them for me,
because I'm exhausted.

Kiss them for me in the still sound of music
and I'll scream though I don't want to.

You are the light,
but I live in a comfortable cave.

I'm a space filler.

I fill the empty spaces.

But I'm only a pastel.

My colors are light and airy.

You'll color over this space someday,

with colors that are more permanent--

with colors that don't fade, as I do.

I've already faded enough to disappear.

Just wait.

...and I'll always be the one
with an empty stomach
and dry lips
and worn out tired hips.

Once a line leader--
I was trampled by my followers.

I've never had a fistful of love,
because my fist is too full of dirt
from digging graves.

And the greatest fist I've ever known
is the one leaving bruises all over my insides.
But that fist has graduated
and been granted tools to be used as weapons.
And my insides which were once diamonds,
are now nothing but sawdust.

And I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.

And stab me just for kicks
because it tickles my fickle chest
and makes me feel like I'm living in a French city
with a quick and fickle tramway system
that can take me anywhere I want to be.

But instead I'm always going to a town
a mere hour away
and sitting in traffic
in a stuffed automobile,
wishing I was where the trains are.

Because the trains that have always sang me lullabies
whisper melodies to me all the time now,
through smoke and haze and swirling lights.

I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.

Call me Miss November
because I'm the first snowfall after the best time of year,
and I cut the world with my icicle sword of a soul.

Can you feel the sword?
I hope you can always feel the sword.

And I will leave and the world will be warm and happy,
and upon my returnal,
I'll give you beautiful sweater weather
and stab you with my icicle sword when you least expect it.

I can feel the knife.
You can feel the sword.
It tickles.

Me and Miss June sing a sister song,
making harmonies with our weaponry.
My icicle sword, her scalding torch.

Just call me Miss Emmy Lou November.
I'll sing a duet with you and depart for almost forever,
and leave with my sister, Miss June.

Wake up.
It's November.
I'm here.
Wake up.
I won't be here for long.

I was born red all over.
Never knowing if I'm meant for love or anger.
But angry leaves fall in November,
getting their revenge.
But nobody listens to anger
when it's falling to the ground so gracefully.

So come to my November house jam
and we'll all be angry and loving
and cold and happy and dreading
the latter end of my company,
and I'll be wishing sister June was with me.

I'm a blackhearted lover.
I'm a blackhearted grave digger.
I'm a blackhearted skinny lover
with skinny arms that'll never be able
to cover anyone from my frigid aura.

In the context of today's supernatural energy,
The brains in which I inhale are forever spinning.
I bought my eyes from the black market
and cannot see clearly anymore.

Saint Hildegard lived in yesterday's supernatural
with purchased Germanic eyes of green and ivory...
as mine are.
She is the best friend that I have never known
and would never **** my vibe.

But all of the energies running around
are killing the vibe that races through my spine.
And I want to see life as a puppy does,
running and frolicking low to the ground...
digging up tennis *****.

You can count on me, though,
to see life as a the gangsta I'm not,
and not as the hound I so want to be.

But I'm neither gangster nor *****,
but only a Lupine plant leaving seeds to be eaten
by the breathers with brains who take all I have to offer.

And nobody calls me the lucky one,
but I know I could be if I had somebody else's organs.
And if I were to dance with you
I may call myself the lucky one,
but I settle for dancing for you
and I'm not lucky at all.

And I don't know how I'm at the end of the line
when there are no girls in front of me.
Can you tell that there are no girls in front of me?

This line goes on for miles,
and the stereo I listen to today's supernatural frequencies through
goes on for miles.

You're the dearest loving zombie I know,
so take me away in a helicopter
far away from the breathers and the bleeders.
And we'll be the only ones in the sky
and we'll walk about the clouds
and engage our supernatural ids
and create a make-believe empire.

But there are things to do outside the windows
and nothing can possibly be how I wish it to.

Don't need some professional at a rehab center,
because these strains of infatuation go on and on.
No one can be paid to change the fact that
I wish I didn't miss you.
What'd I say?
I meant, I wish I didn't keep missing things.
Otis keeps telling me that a change is going to come.
But you can't be my lover and that won't change at all.
If you really want me... never mind.
I didn't write a song for you, but I listened to one.
And the entire time I pictured non-existent home videos from the past.
You wanted me ten minutes ago, but will you still want me tomorrow?
Probably not, because desires will be something different tomorrow.
And my body and my soul will be something different tomorrow.
You can't make me feel a desire that I can't see,
because I can't go for that.
Is this all desire really is?
Something I have to take happy pills to get through.
Well you lost me last night,
and all I was thinking was that soon we'll be found together in a different place.
I was 93 million miles away from you when you were just outside smoking a cigarette.
We're hanging from the Edge of Glory, trying to hoist ourselves up with string bean arms.

Spitting out blood
from my tongue
in which I've been biting
this whole **** time.

Does it taste alright
to you?

All the aces that hold me up
don't mean ****.

I can't fall back on a card
with no royal family.

I have no royal family
and A is the loneliest letter.

and that negative sign never disappears.
It's forever tugging down my spine,
drilling me beneath the pavement.

and I'll hold my neck up straight and tall,
but my vertebrae only stretch so far.
Free me from my haunting enslavement.

Make room between the gaps.

I'm flawed if I'm not free.

But it doesn't matter,
because words don't mean anything to me.

The polaroid.

The sidewalks.

Lake Calhoun.

Sleeping in the hot and sticky trunk.

The stars.

Hiding.

Your cave.

Being ashamed.

Saying goodbye.

Seeing the stars.

The paintings.

The polaroids.

The legs draped over the arm rest of the sofa.

Who's feet are these?

The stars of Minneapolis.

The courtyard.

My face.

Your beautiful ****** angel.

The Starlite Motel.

Seeing the stars of Minneapolis.

The cave.

The paint puddles in a Bible.

The most beautiful night you've ever had.

Don't paint anyone else.

Show me the stars of Minneapolis from inside your cave.

I didn't know 'till now.

I just didn't know.

I'm haunted by the ghost I used to be.

My phantom soul lingers around corners,
and is hiding in the even darker corners of my zombie brain
constantly yearning for more and more brains.

And each day that I age,
the person I used to be seems better and better.

Alcohol's the devil
and he's my only friend.

Heart's broke.

There's nothing to it's name.

Not out of addiction,
     just out of boredom.

I'm taking it into me.
I'm taking it in.

I learned to love rain again.
     it can't stop me now.

Not even in the hall of my love;
     the mighty mountain king.

The trees in the painting have dancing hands,
        they're zombies for the future.
It's physically moving but I don't know how
        Because it isn't, but it so obviously is.
Neon lights blink at me,
        Singing the buzzing of a bubblegum melody.
Streaming eyes, screaming laughter.
Examine me.
Clinging to your lips like a cigarette.
We're in a perfect atmosphere,
     living in a perfect scene.
You're the king of the Starlite Motel,
     and I get to be the queen.

Clipped wings
     and soft paws.

Cut my fingers at the first joint
     and make me forget how to soar.

Take my weapons
     and means of escape.

I'm flying in circles
     and taking pit stops on perches...
          ...
               ...
                    ...

I'm defenseless
with nothing left to be condemned.