The car will edge past the truck maybe
and maybe we'll survive this message
playing on repeat, apologies like daft lilies
and then you go ahead and tell me that you've never
learnt from your mistakes, or my mistakes.
That mistakes are only bad unless you change the order
of analogy. This experiment has been contaminated.
Now a fresh batch. Trust me, there's a point to this.
I'm counting back from a hundred and two
and you've got me standing in the middle of the highway,
blindfolded; this is what loving you felt like,
you said. But I think it was more dramatic in my head.
Nuclear fission and the seige of Dresden dressed
up playing Adagio in D minor; I'm dust. I'm dust.
I've become ash and misery and I'm trying to stay inside you
but you've been coughing a lot, and who's to say
you were holding your breath for something exciting,
I just know for a fact that at the end of this beep,
you'll know what to do and yet
you're not going to leave another message.
beep beep go the cars
beep beep go the SUVs
beep beep go the trash trucks
beep beep go the busses
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the fire engines
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the ambulances
beep beep go the shovelers
beep beep go the snow trucks
beep beep go the Fed Ex guys & UPS ers
beep beep go the watches
beep beep go the alarms
beep beep go the microwave ovens
beep beep go the washers & dyers
beep beep go the beepers
that are driving me beep beeping insane
beep beep goes the Road Runner
but that one does not
drive me beep beeping insane!
Okay, now, really,
you have driven me beep beeping insane.
Show me, you say, show me the hallway.
Show me the bedroom, show me where we used to live. That tree, over there, with the apples.
You, and then not you.
You, crossed out.
You, in the windowsill
with your hair pulled back.
Take me, I say, take me like we're already dead.
You know how this ends.
My hands, your hands, harmony.
A lit match, maybe. And death itself, there beside us.
Fuck me, you know how,
you've done this before, I say, panic and soap that smells a bit too much like your brother's wake.
Play me a funeral song. Impress me, and you say,
what's left to impress?
And maybe I'm not the antichrist, but it's not like you are, either.
This, our hands, you, the radio stuck on one station, crossed out.
This isn't a temporary solution.
You're singing, I say, and you just keep on, say,
this isn't a funeral,
like it's none of my business.
The radio again, playing the only way it knows how.
The mountains, over there in the distance,
spying on us.
Your hands, my hands, tied up like knots, like
this is the only way we can love. But it’s not, is it,
don't you remember the treehouse?
Three blocks down the road a man has blood on his hands, and you are the man and you aren't, all at once.
You, me, clockwork.
A bell, tolling in the distance.
I have this watch that every hour produces a beep,
making me count every hour I'm losing sleep,
Because no matter how hard no rest i can reap,
not knowing how you are or hearing from you make my skin creep,
No matter what because you've manage to every pore seep,
utterly from under me my very being you sweep,
And I know my words by now seem very cheap,
but they along my being are yours to keep.
I can feel the energy leaving my arms
As if there's nothing left to write.
It can't be true; however,
that there's nothing left to write
There's got to be something
That got dark fast.
I could write something,
I think I have the energy
But what to write about?