Travel Log
I wonder if the little girls in braids and bathing suits ever know what's coming.
I always leave so impressed.
You moved yourself to the gates of hell
a sad song on repeat
The tortured souls stand outside with caffeine, dragging from their nicotine
and you call out
that you can't hear what I'm saying
Of all the mistakes I've made, you weren't one of them.
When's the time to act mature?
I'm a rock and roll superstar.
Men climbing up the walls to be in my eyes.
Enough scent and sex to fill a pool.
(A shallow one, so we can walk on water.)
Across the transatlantic metal wires
A day so hazy, the ambulances lose their way.
The white of the wetland will consume us now
A sin screamed into the wind.
It seemed I'd lost all inspiration.
Avoidance of the fatal deed with the fatal boy who, fatally, doesn't matter at all.
I can keep looking back, but you've already gone ahead - what's the use?
I was looking for a beautiful release, a sycophantic breeze. You think, deep down, that you're better than me.
Funny how the tracing of a line on someone's back can turn you away from all others.
It's a picture-perfect movie scene. We're the players, set to the ideal rhythm.
All this work makes pretty little homes.
With roofs only to collect branches, leaves, and the little things your city life doesn't grant you.
Electronic muscle bound to the ground.
seeping out a few chords
enough melody to churn your stomach
and bludgeon your brain.
I've got the kind of hangover you can't shake - the glorified circumstance of an army life
a smashed street light, too many nights of
going down on it and giving it up.
We steal for the adrenaline, glances or goods of the trade
and we side with the radicals
because we don't want to be in our twenties with nothing
to fight for.
I sometimes forget why it's good to be alive.
It's easy for you; what you've got in your hands is exactly
what you know he's holding.
I look at your dreams as pastel pistols.
We're just watching ourselves from afar
keep yourself tired but connected to the line
you can't have all the answers
when only I know the questions...
I always leave so impressed.
You moved yourself to the gates of hell
a sad song on repeat
The tortured souls stand outside with caffeine, dragging from their nicotine
and you call out
that you can't hear what I'm saying
Of all the mistakes I've made, you weren't one of them.
When's the time to act mature?
I'm a rock and roll superstar.
Men climbing up the walls to be in my eyes.
Enough scent and sex to fill a pool.
(A shallow one, so we can walk on water.)
Across the transatlantic metal wires
A day so hazy, the ambulances lose their way.
The white of the wetland will consume us now
A sin screamed into the wind.
It seemed I'd lost all inspiration.
Avoidance of the fatal deed with the fatal boy who, fatally, doesn't matter at all.
I can keep looking back, but you've already gone ahead - what's the use?
I was looking for a beautiful release, a sycophantic breeze. You think, deep down, that you're better than me.
Funny how the tracing of a line on someone's back can turn you away from all others.
It's a picture-perfect movie scene. We're the players, set to the ideal rhythm.
All this work makes pretty little homes.
With roofs only to collect branches, leaves, and the little things your city life doesn't grant you.
Electronic muscle bound to the ground.
seeping out a few chords
enough melody to churn your stomach
and bludgeon your brain.
I've got the kind of hangover you can't shake - the glorified circumstance of an army life
a smashed street light, too many nights of
going down on it and giving it up.
We steal for the adrenaline, glances or goods of the trade
and we side with the radicals
because we don't want to be in our twenties with nothing
to fight for.
I sometimes forget why it's good to be alive.
It's easy for you; what you've got in your hands is exactly
what you know he's holding.
I look at your dreams as pastel pistols.
We're just watching ourselves from afar
keep yourself tired but connected to the line
you can't have all the answers
when only I know the questions...