1. |
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|
I've got nothing on you
you've got everything on me
I wouldn't dare to
broach the subject on a tuesday
it would break her little heart
you're an artist I know
but it's no excuse
I don't believe it
I don't believe you don't see
if you hook it up to the speakers
it's still got the same unbearable sound
if you undress it to the bones
it's awful shape still stays the same
you don't stay up worrying
what happens when the only music you like
is the sound of
glass breaking
|
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2. |
Basement - Red Teeth
02:40
|
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|
Red Teeth and a white tongue
losing my mind
red teeth and a white tongue
fighting or flying
when my brain flushes I fill it with wine
red teeth and a white tongue
sound bytes and videos
remember what I don't
the storage that I chose
a force I can truly own
owning finally by force
not solved by my divorce
that salt it finally shows
in sweat in the videos
me at my edge of me
muscles make ketamine
yeah that's my voice, but that's not me talking
|
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3. |
Basement - Red Pen
05:10
|
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|
When you were growing up
wasn't it like your mom
rummaging through your drawers
wearing a ballgown and a burger king hat --
finding your journals and going
through them with a red pen
rewriting the parts she didn't like
and just crossing the parts out
she felt she could simply not salvage.
It's weird that there are chairs there.
Are you afraid that I'll forget
the word for snow?
Because maybe you need
to let go of that one
in the name of the italian seascapes
and sky. You have to trust that
on a cold day, sitting next to someone
smoking a pipe -- I'll hear a windchime
or a strange birdsound or the creak
of wood and I'll remember
how few the words once were.
The word can change, but the snow
stays the same.
(How are you going to find it?)
|
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4. |
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|
Facing from the back door, waving
through a mirror again. I follow the
road in forward retreat.
I'm chasing to a liquor store or racing
with the whore in me. I feel my lust in
driving at 70.
I cross into the clergy's thrust, a rape
aimed for putrid fruit. The evil bursting
flesh of weak will in deed.
I keep the peace in semen from the
rage inside his robe - the bruising of a
wheel, sweet hurt black breath.
I miss my lady.
I fist my partner.
I fist my God.
+ + +
Lie to anyone if it feels good. Feed the christians to the lions like their meat isn't rotten. Lie to yourself if it feels good. Lick your fingers for the thin wood. Skull fuck (love) Jesus in your childhood. Make him love you like he made you.
The turning pages of a child. The inky strands you thought were truthful. The tickle in your gut when you're fighting. Now that John's dead I'd like some heroin, to know what it feels like to drive away at full speed.
|
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5. |
||||
|
Samples:
"Straight Edge" by Minor Threat
"Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega
"First Class" by Kottonmouth Kings
|
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6. |
||||
|
I watched John Leif smoke BT
for his first time in the dark
parking lot at Nico's Taco Shop.
Tin foil and puking, and lungs
like two tarped apartments-
emptied and immature.
Fumigated and sticky pink
gum under his sneakers. Much
like his "25," cocooned in his
shiny wood coffin. Wearing
clean clothes, the same nothing
in his eyes.
But, exhaust and no light.
Exhaust.
The lot lamps turned down and Nico's opened a brand new bigger location with the same oily food. The first shop never closed where I watched John Leif one time slurp up smoke as a child, and one time tell a junkie, “No I'm clean now,” also as a child.
|
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7. |
Human Behavior - Teen
04:13
|
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|
Croak on tree, from turned tools aimed upwards pointing to the bugs in mid soar, to striking downwards like shoot, lightning, bark, leather. Digging up earth into piles of whatever. Live away from the heaps! You'll have plenty of time together after soon. Until then, turn them into fire, light, charcoal, paper, life.
Burn the tree, so when they see my cave paintings living will have been captured by symbol but not medium. Yet, when the dirt is in my brain, and my memories, and my sister kissing the air next to my cheek, and my life is my muddy grip, I'll be nothing but nothing.
When they see my cave paintings, I'l hide my ox-blood fingers behind my back. "I know it doesn't look like a buffalo but doesn't it feel like one?"
"Yes, but the soil beneath your nails, the color of your hands like they slapped bark. I forget."
Doesn't it smell like the smolder of wood in our chest was designed to hurt? Our minds are running through the upward vine, clipped like jack-shit at the final climb. Sailing downwards, then decomposing, then nothing but nothing.
When they see my remains, I'll have been a primate. When they feel my remains, I'll have been a buffalo already dead in the dirt. But, when they see my cave paintings, I'll be a tree bursting from that dirt, and a cave, and a painting, and a nothing but nothing.
Burning people burning branches, charred to the stump. I hope.
Get the teen out of my body.
|
||||
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