So many parts of me, are amputated, de-oxygenated. So many parts of me, beggar my own belief, I say ‘no there’s no such thing, it’s a phantom limb. It’s a phantom limb-hmm.’
//I get dragged down by factual jaws, practicality with callous and cause. I forget my overactive imagination, the delusion that is my consolation. I become a ghost town – a haunted nation. I’m not proud to wear the crown.
//So many senses, giving me bile, making me choke. But every, once in a while, I get through the screen of the smoke. And there’s a world, out there, beyond a realist cloak. And I am happy, for a moment vindicated, I am at peace, for a moment I’m elated, so invigorated. But then it ends, my head is a prison again-a-an.
//And I beg it to change, my atoms to implode and rearrange but all the things once bearable are strange. And I forget I am able to change, myself in the mirror, seeing my eyes are caged.
//Can’t keep the faith, at the pace I’m deprived. Without my un-empirical, I feel un-alive. How long will my soul survive? I’m in fear of living dismembered.
We break all our bones, to live in your homes. Ignoring the pangs, the aches and the moans. We call it being free, the choice to decay. We call it living, this existence of strain. Yeah, we are deluded, but the world is delusional, so who can succeed in a sane state?
//We are exceptional, in that it is terrible, for us who are used to feeling safe.
//I am a machine I used to say, but I meant an instrument, and you mean a tool-o-ool. Scry for me, or try for me, that’s what I’m looking for, something to die for, do you want to die for me?
//Yeah, but there’s something else in here, something darker in this – life. Brains on drugs, maybe it’s called love, because this surely is called hatred. Pain, make it a drug, because it’s what I’ve got a lot of, it can distract me from how I try to distract me. Sane, call me, because, I fit the mold like a glove. I’ve cut off my fingertips.
Pretty pose, pretty prose, pretty vapid. Pretty, pretty, shiny, plastic. Stone, like a brick, grooves in my bones, skin not thick.
//Won’t you call me a medicine man? Call me a doctor, she won’t understand. Send me to England or send me to France, I’m a pagan to all your illusion.
//Keep me for keeps, or **** me with fire. I am alive if I summon your ire? Am I maybe dead, is that what I desire, do I, do I?
// I would breathe poison that came from your lips, in this world of elbows I’d die for a kiss.
**** me so I can see there’s more than this,
more than this,
more than this-is.
