My mind is a clementine.
It's freshly squeezed
and it's guts are everywhere.
I tread over the peels
but keep slipping on the intestines.
The stringy bits hang me up
by my ears and I jump around
like a patient under shock treatment.
It's sunset all the time, never day,
never night, just stuck between madness
and catatonic tendencies.
I'm always here and can't get out
of the orange waltz.

It's a series of technical difficulties,
my mind is tuning itself.
But I never turned the radio on,
I don't want to hear the talking anymore.
The only clever idea it comes up with
is to blow myself up so I can
BECOME part of the sunset.
Whatever I do, it'll be messy, it is in there.
Maybe it'll learn not to
call me a mars struck alien and
make me butcher myself up like I'm
mouldy and unworthy of saving.
I've gone off and my mind is thriving off it.