(no subject)
Flux between a soul and nonsense --
reprise, because another musician wrote this poem.
They'll say (in life),
he wasn't a pretty boy --
We're in business now --
there's no doubt
a shaved head and two testicles
are all we need
to cross the desert.
If only these needles would leave my bed
I'd dream again and that'd be nice and
I'd be happy.
Happy like a beaver building dams in some
eternal forest filled with sunlight
and dust mites floating between trees --
you've seen the pictures.
Happy like that kid Tyson, when his father
hurled him into the pool
instead of bringing out the belt.
I'll build passion from a matchstick flare
and fling imaginary rings of smoke --
catch, or something.
A ghost is haunting this website,
slipping into the continental universe
and sputtering on about life --
don't you know you're dead, ghost?
I think I already told you:
I'm going to shave my head
and set out on this quest --
I'll pierce the evening's skin and bellow,
no, trumpet, my intent
to tear your daughter from your clutches --
fasten a streamer made of life
to her homely dress
and send her skipping into the breeze.
Foundation shudders, an uneasy truce
when all is fair in love and war --
"Shape without form" is the new square --
try and find a peg that fits, buddy.
Tired of the coats and little hair,
talk of track and splitting fair
the proceeds of 'who gives
a shit', last night's gambling
and the weekends gains.
Tired of the frost that fits so neatly
inside a dull man's mind,
tired of being frosted
myself.
Crackle.
reprise, because another musician wrote this poem.
They'll say (in life),
he wasn't a pretty boy --
We're in business now --
there's no doubt
a shaved head and two testicles
are all we need
to cross the desert.
If only these needles would leave my bed
I'd dream again and that'd be nice and
I'd be happy.
Happy like a beaver building dams in some
eternal forest filled with sunlight
and dust mites floating between trees --
you've seen the pictures.
Happy like that kid Tyson, when his father
hurled him into the pool
instead of bringing out the belt.
I'll build passion from a matchstick flare
and fling imaginary rings of smoke --
catch, or something.
A ghost is haunting this website,
slipping into the continental universe
and sputtering on about life --
don't you know you're dead, ghost?
I think I already told you:
I'm going to shave my head
and set out on this quest --
I'll pierce the evening's skin and bellow,
no, trumpet, my intent
to tear your daughter from your clutches --
fasten a streamer made of life
to her homely dress
and send her skipping into the breeze.
Foundation shudders, an uneasy truce
when all is fair in love and war --
"Shape without form" is the new square --
try and find a peg that fits, buddy.
Tired of the coats and little hair,
talk of track and splitting fair
the proceeds of 'who gives
a shit', last night's gambling
and the weekends gains.
Tired of the frost that fits so neatly
inside a dull man's mind,
tired of being frosted
myself.
Crackle.