oh, you like libraries and a boring sky
with a 50's radio voice boring into your skull?
it's boring in your skull, waiting to wake up
as someone else. it's hard to be yourself; whoever that is today.
i know mother told you you could be actual star,
but space isn't for you: there's not enough windows.
if we governed ourselves, we'd have to stop fighting,
or focus on breeding, or focus on living.
up in this tree is where i lick my wounds
before they can happen:
keep the skin raw waiting for vampires to happen.
if you happen to be listening
at night, i hear voices and fight with words on a barren landscape
where anything outside of this is a barren landscape
hence the word bar.
drink yourself happy and vomit to sleep.
better don't mind the mold in the bathroom,
it means we're being loved and someone's saving our urine
for when we snort up the ocean.
addicted to seaweed, practicing abortions...

missing something or missing nothing;
ugly people don't fall in love,
they tolerate life 'til ash when in an urn sprinkled in a back cove
where i grew up.
now i'm a machine hating other machines.
i say it with a hotel pen...watch it dissolve like a hotel movie...
learning it all through a lack of understanding.
pacing myself, filling in the blanks,
and you strive to be political
like buying a card somehow makes you a member.
i pick my fights the way i pick my friends:
if you fuck with me, come get a pyrric victory,
i'll show you why i have nothing; you can too.
this isn't a threat, i'm sharing my list with you, fuck the internet,
i'll live in the past, i'm a product of the 70's.
i never wanted to be social;
judged through the eye of a 40 oz.,
the guts of a coffee; my coffin awaits.

i tell her: "hum quietly and grant the occassional hallucination.
everything is now.
wear forever this shit-eating grin,
it's the best chance for survival while you wait to feel lucky.
there's no gambling involved...
don't be a patient, hide from the pageant...
then from the fragrance of the rotten breath of a middle school teacher;
no use for science, it takes the life out of everything (let them go).
let them think themselves to sleep themselves together
until they all blow over.

all the king's dead money recycled themes
themselves to sleep under fantastic clocks
that go cold in the night. warm bodies huddle,
cold bodies landfill under fancy restaurants;
the cold stay cold and have no use for flowers.
the warm pretend to be lovers 'til they're mothers and fathers.
the cold need chemicals and can't hide, not even in the dark,
where things come into light,
where i wear a warm body around my neck,
and wait quietly for the world to end.
neither warm nor cold, just a bedpan for both.
it was nothing, actually, it was nothing,
actually, it was nothing...