I go back to Hampshire
to pretend I have old friends.
I drive around the mountains
to look for an end
to the violence
that's been breeding inside.
I've been a god ******,
god ******, god ******.

There's a dying wild
surrounding this town;
a girl limping with her mother,
holding ****** hounds.

You can consume it,
the blurred out dreams,
that these rubber-lovers
hung in Christmas trees.

There's a sense regret
amongst the ****** chic;
a romantic degeneracy
not lost on the teens.
Push in the fate,
to let something out.
I'm such a god ******,
god ******, god ******.

And I blot the ******
remnants of the past,
fire a cheap cigarette
and cut myself on the glass
of the car I drove into
the bank of your dreams.

To get out, to get out,
I've become such a ******* fool.
To get out, to get out,
I've hurt everyone that thought I was cool.

Dragging a baseball bat through the alley,
old-fashioned stain, auto-signed by some
body that used to inspire, you know how it goes

And, of course, it's raining a type of
slippery sludge that gets on and under
regenerating skin, born today, dead today
forever and ever a boulder pushing life

It all stings, oh god, it will accurately burn
the way that a forgotten face trips into smoke
before the mind's wandering, hazardous dare
Then, before it was ever known, you break
into the breeze, a tryst of truth, floating

Where he stands is so close to where the
bat meets the flesh, bursting under babble
Swinging with the explosion of repressed
rage, stolen memories summoned into a
frenzy of freedom and self-imprisonment

Violent before the new world,
breathing into a rumored hollow carcass

When our bones rub softly,
I can take my teeth out and
shine them like skin cutters.
A yellow-bird dress you wear;
the same matchbox socks
that you wouldn't bother.

Sometimes, all the time, I
shiver in the gelatin lake
and what a faux-shake
it would only take
to make you care.

Baby, maybe, you
could love your child
like the sultry sandman;
place them on pinkish pillows,
and pretend your stories are
as real as your lashes.

And what a lamb,
kneeling in the Irish grass,
drinking all that is in her glass,
before breaking it over a wet stone,
and holding it to her throat, singing,
"I've always been surrounded, but
have always felt alone."

My country is full of people
too violent and dumb to be anything else.
We value money, bodies, and your stuff
because it is not ours yet.

My flag is wrapped around some
white-trash hick's *******.
You look different than us and
that is ******* terrifying;
please leave while we stay
in your country,
'protecting you'.

My country is home to
religious freedom, as long
as the religion is Christianity.

My country is the world's
greatest melting ***, but
we'd prefer all ingredients
to be the same or die.

My country is a joke,
thinking it's the standard
the world desires to achieve.

My country is the world police,
creating tension, harassing you,
hating you, taking from you.

Poison ivy spreading all over my skin.
I brushed up against death and
never want to do it again.
They say with time it goes away,
but I can still feel it all over me.

The clock doesn't erode
the way I can feel inside.
I dance with the hands
but am, really, looking
for some place to hide.
I've used a neon bible
ever since she died.

And when she couldn't move,
the sirens blared,
she said it'd be okay,
but I felt so scared.
Maybe it's all in my head,
as the roof took rain.
She said 'I'm going far,'
I said, you gotta stay,
you're just in pain.

I'll never show her
what I am capable of.
I was in The New Yorker
and I'm not sure if
she even saw.

There's a paralysis
that comes with love,
related to every coffin drop
that sings from above,
and I wish you knew her, too,
as well as she knew me:
I am twenty-three and
covered in ivy.

I rejected the art crowd
like a hipster on parade.
I lied to a pale face
because I was too afraid
to be myself; oh, to be myself
is to be naked among the winds.

FADE IN.

Mama, come try to deliver me;
I've been a rubber baby
since nineteen-ninety-three.
Father, come try to educate me;
I've been your no-good
since I turned thirteen.

Please, Lord, find the redemption in me --
I've grown weary of the way worry
boils, brews, and eats me slow.
See, friend, I can feel, too;
I used to let you down because
that's all I thought I knew
what to do.

Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada
Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada

Sister, angel, become bloodshot
at the way I hang; swaying
from the bedroom tree.
Sometimes I mistake my
bad brains for rotting fruit;
mushy peaches, doused in
fishbowl alcohol and
worries I can't shoo.

Good God, Lord,
what am I to do?
Good Lover,
what am I to say?
Good Brother,
I've failed you so.
Good Father,
I'm sorry I'm made this way.

I'm just a young boy unaware
of the stretcher
I think is a bed;
Bad brains make the
star-kid in my head.

Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada
Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada

FADE OUT.

By Arcassin Burnham

132 miles per hour, 222 more to go,
you would say it's very apparent
I would be emphasizing on the road,
heaven calls,
the devils mad,
secrets revealed about my soul,
thoughts I never knew you had,
The egg man takes me on a journey,
to all the broken things I stole,
dry my eyes and spill my seeds,
the lord forgives if I would plead,
Ms.Riperton will sing to me,
lyrics she'll feed,
Woodstock for the clearing of my soul,
wishing I could go back in time,
deal without thoughts of being old,
maybe I'm just falling out of line,
like being on acid for two hours and
going to wonderland,
you maybe old but for the young we must
understand,
Drugs are bad.

I once was a kind of smart man;
pretentious to the bone --
I took a pill for the thrill
of masking a part
I thought was gone.

Something, Something
College Dropout
Something, Something
No Good Son
I took a drive to stay alive
because I swore I
was once someone.

I once was a good American;
dollar bills on my bones --
I fell in love with the glove
that covered the debt  
that made me feel alone.

Something, Something
Godless Monster
Something, Something
First Born Waste
I bought a gun to
have some fun and
thought I'd have a taste.

I hope I'm a loving father
and don't vanish in the dust.
There aren't many thoughts
that bounce in this head
I find I can trust.

Something, Something
Standard Loner
Something, Something
Find Me When I'm Gone

Something, Something
Where Am I
Something, Something
Am I Someone

And I think I should say
I did not find God, today.
I'm being told that my mind
isn't considered right and that
I will always lose the fight
that is life.

I think I should melt away
with the tangerine dusk;
float away with the
copper-colored dust.
And I shouldn't be mourned
or become a chore to the
people I should have warned:
I am a Godless void, ruined by
my own mindless self-indulgence.

For what it's worth,
it no longer hurts or can
be mistaken for
something bigger
for our Lord.

Maybe I should find a
Texas hole to melt inside;
a place to rest my burden,
fall apart and die.