If you told me then
We’d now be coughing blood
You know Doc, I wouldn’t change a thing.
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A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.
Today the time ran out
just as it had begun—
Hot water fills the tub
you swore you’d never become—
It’s warm and shallow now
cut servings for only one—
The echo down the hall, well
that’s just yesterdays love—
Now it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
Today the moon refused
to trade place with the sun—
Sidewalks full of people
but still you know only one—
It’s an impossible force
that drags you from yourself—
Now it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
I try, you know I do, to balance
fault lines and faith, the surgeons
steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—
It’s a symphony of simple things
that will seem eclipsed by the sun—
Cause it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
A needle in hay
How can a man
give so much of himself
to the past, and so little
to his future?
The answer
can be found as quickly
as a needle in hay.
It’s a needle
that always draws a little blood.
skull and crossbones
At the end of the race
make em say:
to hell with these eyes they’ve seen too much
this tongue is all rotten with tasteless buds
what ears are these they’ve heard enough
and liver? What gall you, it’s all washed up!
His sole’s so worn, all callus and rough
even nail beds torn up from climbing so much
lips like a canyon, dried, cracked and his blood
it’s cheaper than whiskey, diluted with love!
To hell with his soul, heaven’s full and what?
His brain, are you mad? It’s pondered enough.
What use is this flesh, it’s ancient as stone
he’s breathed his last breath, he’s skull and crossbones!
Pull another Death card
I have no business
I’ve made that quite clear
But I’m still wondering
What lies beyond here
This bottle I’ve found
Is filled to the brim
With messages signed
In blood red penmanship.
The city wakes up
I open my eyes
These walls are filled with
Unsealed goodbyes
This letter I’ve got
Return to sender
I’ve not the courage
Or will to send her.
It’s 3 o’clock in
The fucking morning
These panic headaches
Come without warning
Now I just want sleep
No sleeping beauty
So when I lie down
Please keep my casket closed.
No kiss
Is worth
A thousand words
I know
So spare me the ritual.
This blind ambition
That I know so well
It’s superstition
Like Heaven and Hell
Now where’s that locket
The one I gave her
It felt so pure then
Like the last savior.
No one is perfect
I’ve made that quite clear
Still all this nonsense
Makes sense in the mirror
And when I throw up
It’s all of my fears
God had to go up
For us to burn down here.
So take this end and
Tie it to that beam
I weigh less than him
So it should hold me
And when I wake up
This’ll all be over
Pull another Death card
Rebirth and closure.
Nobody
Gets out
Of this place
Alive
Just promise me you’ll try.
time to go outside
The silence
this heat wave
these pale white walls
sunlight and
floorboards whisper
it’s time to go outside.
sex, love, and war
if it’s all
sex, love
and war
then where we stand
is better, for
what it’s worth
the things we carry
lies, lore
even drugs, barely
rock and roll
our sundry hearts
whose spirits lurk
dear Joan of Arc,
if it’s all
been heaven sent
then hear me now
as I repent,
tied together
at the stake
a Sid and Nancy
sealed fate,
but dare I ask
what you desire
if and when
they light my fire,
come on, come on
make it quick
like silver I’ve
two dimes that’s it,
nothing more
and nothing less
dear lizard king
feel this
music sung
inside my heart
sailing on
a Noah’s Ark,
and in a cage
twisted, tangled
two minds race
they jingle jangle,
pulling teeth
and gumming glass
spitting blood
and skipping mass
for if it’s all
sex, love
and war
then know the reasons
worth fighting for
In cold blood.
It’s people
who feel invisible
that do
the most heinous things,
and nobody
ever seems to know
who, what, where, when
or why such things could be done,
until after the fact
when there’s enough
evidence
to write a book in cold blood.
Destroying my art one piece at a time
I tell myself stories
and create word pairings
like a master work of Rembrandt
picture perfect in a frame
but no matter my intention
good will is always marred
by Van Gogh’s lack of detail
or is it his mastery of the craft?
Destroying my art
one piece at a time.
Your finest work was not in oil,
it was in your blood.
Nothing ever is that cut and dry.
Take me with a grain of salt
then throw me over your shoulder.
It’s the only way I know,
self taught and still figuring it out.
Just a pinch is enough though.
Nobody wants high blood pressure.
Oh, but we’re all so practiced
in the art of innocence.
I hear you when you give thanks
but that doesn’t mean I believe you.
It doesn’t mean that I don’t too.
Nothing ever is that cut and dry.
Is it?
Now, this is the part
where you throw me over your shoulder.
