Thirty-four teeth scattered on the concrete
Surrounding me with hair clippings and black coffee
A pile of nail-trimmings and counting
My bones fuse without consulting me.
Countless forced entries into a dry mouth
Kicking out food I should have kept down,
Brittle bones broken around the cold ground
Skin soothed in the snow through a night-gown.
Justified refusal to let go of the past,
I'll allow the abuse if I can buy my own cast.
I wipe away my eyes as the cameras flash
And voices reassure you that you made a big splash.

Trust in the bottles, they were blown in mass production
"Self-improvement's *******. Now, self-destruction..."
You are not unique or beautiful, you're genetic instructions
Apart of the collective in which we all have a function
And the artist is a slave to the consumption fixation
He or she belongs to those who consider vibrations
And remind themselves how to best serve the nation,
Concerned with their technological fascination
Lying naked on a cobblestone street like ***** clothes,
Can't see your face from the last thirty cloves.
They drag me by the arms on the way to the show
And give me a little something to make me go.