Tear to me you cold, apathetic thing
You terrible thing, crooked with deformity
You perfect thing, flawless in design

Fold me under your wing and breathe me a song
as notes of dead, whispering leaves
dance in stagger-form about us

Plant me in the rot of autumn
To grow by the rust-glow of a thousand setting suns
To bathe in the dance of rain
To dance to the rain-songs that patter against window panes and hiss from the neon glow of small-town midnights

Carry me free of self-conscious, critical thought
For to shrug off the hands of my family, and to **** my friends
is the only true form of self-expression

To look in the glazed eyes of every passing stranger,
and see myself reflected in them,
and feel nothing

Oh, you nameless, brilliant thing
I name you
And with the form of your sound filling my mouth,
burning my throat,
rotting my teeth, I summon you
From the aching void of my burnt out mind,
and by the only right not granted to me by the American God,
I summon you
Ours is the last rite of pagan history

Please, hear me
Under the miles of white-static that buzzes like flies
about the stink of my dead-meat brain
Please, hear me
Though my voice is but a gurgle of blood between coughing fits
Please, hear me
Please
I don't want to be alone

Alone, but for the angry thrashing of my dreams
Fragments of stories that come between my twitching limbs
and dull, sweat-drenched headaches
Less than fragments
Syllables of words, strewn in the mud,
that I search out and rinse off and piece together
Only to finish and find that the word is nonsense
Guttural gibberish that offends with its meaningless

I speak in the tongues of my own ****** up cult,
to an empty room
My sermon is plagiarized
A distorted version of better work
The voice of god, twisted and made dumb.
An echo of cliche, a copy of copycats, reflections reflected