Your eyes are on backwards, you're speaking in tongues
Expelling rancid breath from corrupted, rotting lungs
Breaking all the rungs on your plummet down the mineshaft
Rehearse, react, try to quote fact to the faceless
Spaceless outside brain, watching rain stain window
Bend low and embrace me, or mace me, debase me
Give it time and time will erase me, and thee

Up in those dry hills
Eating oranges, squeezing lemons
Fog like fingers in the morning,
billowing up the rattling crevasses
On the cusp of the cornice
Cutting cables in our recklessness,
our burning plastic dreams
Broken glass seams sewed together
with a blowtorch
Become one with the roach, the rat,
prepare to live and die like that

What you want is not always what you need
You get off your pills and forget how to see
Cower and plea, trenches and artillery
We live at home peacefully while we bomb children overseas
Graveyards among trees, flies landing as they please
What types of days are these, falling away it seems
Trying to achieve my dreams, self sabotage by any means
Holding four queens and a two, stinky bag in my shoe
Walking just to get through, get somewhere just to leave again
Spit and spin, coffee and gin, misunderstood original sin
Bent like cheap tin, kicked in, Tsavo lions den dark
Stark remarks, bearing your cleft heart beating red

A mood where you want tea.
A white dove ascends,
solitary and unafraid.

You're my living paintbrush,
charcoal glossy scales
Emeralds swimming upstream,
tried to catch and failed
Printed on thin paper,
your darkly rounded eye
Color of cloudless sky
on shining lateral line
Cut out white fillets
right along the spine

A sentence and a cell,
the American dream of hell,
melted Liberty bell,
getting sick of the smell,
can you tell how long it's been?
do you trust this cage you're in?
do you trust this rage within?
initial impact then spin,
centrifugal friend,
soul bouncing inside cold, dead, skin

Life rolls on even when you don't want it to
Trying to find the hidden mechanism of stillness
The thrill is gone, smoked up on the back porch
Holding wicked torch, lighting up lines of houses
Blouses held open to the wind, waiting on rain to send them running
Mumbling through gas station interactions, floorgaze reaction
Gaining traction through inaction, empty rattling boxcar soul
Always digging the hole a little deeper, one security, one sleeper