Advancements in Literary Hysteria
The Dreadful Persistence of Superficiality
Revolving doors give to a welcoming breeze cooler than my own expression, an inaudible hum secretly muting the clicking of keys. All eyes on me, a smoother criminal than Motown could've imagined. My intentions, far from malice; synapses pointed to an equal exchange. Still, I'm met with glances wild and suggestions of protection removal, my only shield from future spills of light. I can feel their fearful stares, and what they perceive as holster disengagement is but an advance on cancerous concealment. Don't judge a book by its cover, most certainly not by its author. You'll turn the last page back with self-reprimanding surprise. Any seasoned psychologist can watch a grin turn from sincere to pretentious in the blink of a watchful, sullen eye. Your implausible ear-to-ear spread and quivering chirp doesn't fool the court. None but a sheep in wolf's clothing, a de-clawed cat with foggy vision. They're mistaking jetlag for jaundice, broken teeth for sharpened fangs. With the harsh snap of air collapsing into an empty space, I'll make my retreat. No, really, I couldn't stand more encouragement. I trade places with a starving bloodhound and never turn back to absorb the satisfaction of your jaws slung wide open like anxious bear traps... I was already prey today. Your bloodstream could've dealt without the lead, and as accounts quickly dwindle, recall that a lone individual could've held the persuasion you needed. I hope you treasured your very last breath and your final flight with discrimination. I could've saved you... you could've let me in.
Queen Nicotine of the Valley
Well I said this, and she said that, and I was like "whaaaat?" and she was like "yeah." This conversation is not for the weak of heart or the strong of mind. I saw the light before she went blind, she'll float while I'm drowning, but I'll be singing while she screams. Hollywood is conniving and not at all what it seems.
Dearest catatonic, I hope sex sells you well. You found your ticket to hell and the train is leaving. I woke up expecting to hold you and found myself letting go. Feed it to the tabloids. You were a piece of artistry to me, but got too much attention at the gallery... and now you're nothing but an irk of heart, no mother fucking work of art.
Slow down.
Take it easy now.
The conductor fell asleep at the controls and there's a curve ahead.
Dearest bubonic, I hate that money buys you well, because I can't afford this plague. I heard daddy hugged you way too much but didn't clean up the mess he made.
Los Angeles found their namesake but clipped her wings before she could fly away, and without a guardian angel to guide me, I just might die today. Maybe tomorrow. I wish she could feel this hollow. We met a moment too soon and connected when it was already too late.
Warfare: Live, from the Gutter
(About the Ammunition)
Something tells me that our efforts are futile,
my facial muscles ache from forcing this blue smile.
Devoid of pigment, this stranglehold's a figment of a sick imagination made real.
And as the color sinks down beneath skin so taught,
I'm seeing black and white flashbacks of the wars I've fought.
Retreat to the bunker to face off with the hunger for a comfortable bed and a home-cooked meal.
But this isn't about the ammunition, I could fire off shots all night.
It's a self-sacrificial act of contrition for the wrongs I can never make right.
The ammo's ready but a war cry is needed
and with these chains at my throat, I stand silent and defeated
I choke out a surrender with airways so slender, my white flag flies unseen.
My infantry bailed when the first shells exploded,
and when I reached for my gun, I could've sworn it was loaded
but the chamber holds blanks, I guess this is the thanks I get for positioning myself in-between my comrades and enemies,
discharged amenities lie on the ground like dysfunctional toys
In spite of the battle, I speak my death rattle
unheard beneath the din of artillery noise.
But this isn't about the ammunition,
the mortar doesn't phase me a bit.
I've taken my position in this suicide mission
and I've come too goddamned far to quit.
Finding solace in couch-cushions and tablescraps
Searching for treasure beneath red x's on fabled maps
The armada creedo simply doesn't hold true,
I know what I've been told, and I pass it on to you.
Life doesn't wait up and karma's a bitch
and though it shakes me to the core like an eternal nervous twitch
I'm coming to terms with the spoils of war
even though, long ago, I lost sight of what the fight was for.
Pride is Placed Before a Fall
...and when the world stops turning, I'll be there laughing loud at the splendor of it all. Shrieking and squealing and making a scene. Down we'll go, spiraling far out of orbit, reaching for hands to hold on to. The ones that fed as we bit down, squeezed as we pulled away. No one is thankful for grace anymore. No one considers their own Caesar-esque plight; that glimmering knife in your back was stolen from the place you sleep.
...and when the world starts burning, I'll sculpt a monument out of the ash, a reminder of what we've done. You're a part of it, and this life is in shambles but you'll never recognize. We're all blind to destruction, this mental corruption, this crime.
I'll spike my blood and poison every bite they take.
I'll sever my own last nerve just so no one else can get to it.
And then I'll rot away, decomposing gallantly, and everyone else will laugh, too. I hope you're all listening carefully, I hope you're all watching vigilantly.
I'm losing my mind.
Instability by Moonlight
I've been thinking about celestial bodies and the like, and how I wish I were one, because the distances between terrestrial counterparts leaves room for comfort I could use. My own private atmosphere of carbon monoxide and solitude. But there are figures in numbers too awful to count, their thoughts projected through dark, starry eyes in all-too-certain stanzas of separation. I can feel galactic spaces being bored through unapologetic flesh.
And when we meet face to face, I can tell that I'm not wanted here right now. Their whispers so deafening, their tongues are made of glass.
Cut me again. Leave a good scar for me to resent you by. I've been dining on fumes for too long; strike a match and ignite my passages. The North Star in my chest will guide you safely home. If you could teach me to breathe, I'd still yawn a blaze of glory upon the ground.
Last month I broke both of my legs on purpose and I walked for the first time. Next week I'm working on my spine just so I can stand up straight again. None of you will see me suffer, it's all in storage and I can handle the rent. What I'd give to find my agony drawn to the curb, ready to be dealt with(out).
They'll find me in a crater beneath the lunar foliage, exquisitely torn apart. I'll have a smile, a grin of singularity, and twilight in my gaze.
The satellites surrounding would envy my radiance but only gaze on from afar.
This is the beginning of my end.
Revolving doors give to a welcoming breeze cooler than my own expression, an inaudible hum secretly muting the clicking of keys. All eyes on me, a smoother criminal than Motown could've imagined. My intentions, far from malice; synapses pointed to an equal exchange. Still, I'm met with glances wild and suggestions of protection removal, my only shield from future spills of light. I can feel their fearful stares, and what they perceive as holster disengagement is but an advance on cancerous concealment. Don't judge a book by its cover, most certainly not by its author. You'll turn the last page back with self-reprimanding surprise. Any seasoned psychologist can watch a grin turn from sincere to pretentious in the blink of a watchful, sullen eye. Your implausible ear-to-ear spread and quivering chirp doesn't fool the court. None but a sheep in wolf's clothing, a de-clawed cat with foggy vision. They're mistaking jetlag for jaundice, broken teeth for sharpened fangs. With the harsh snap of air collapsing into an empty space, I'll make my retreat. No, really, I couldn't stand more encouragement. I trade places with a starving bloodhound and never turn back to absorb the satisfaction of your jaws slung wide open like anxious bear traps... I was already prey today. Your bloodstream could've dealt without the lead, and as accounts quickly dwindle, recall that a lone individual could've held the persuasion you needed. I hope you treasured your very last breath and your final flight with discrimination. I could've saved you... you could've let me in.
Queen Nicotine of the Valley
Well I said this, and she said that, and I was like "whaaaat?" and she was like "yeah." This conversation is not for the weak of heart or the strong of mind. I saw the light before she went blind, she'll float while I'm drowning, but I'll be singing while she screams. Hollywood is conniving and not at all what it seems.
Dearest catatonic, I hope sex sells you well. You found your ticket to hell and the train is leaving. I woke up expecting to hold you and found myself letting go. Feed it to the tabloids. You were a piece of artistry to me, but got too much attention at the gallery... and now you're nothing but an irk of heart, no mother fucking work of art.
Slow down.
Take it easy now.
The conductor fell asleep at the controls and there's a curve ahead.
Dearest bubonic, I hate that money buys you well, because I can't afford this plague. I heard daddy hugged you way too much but didn't clean up the mess he made.
Los Angeles found their namesake but clipped her wings before she could fly away, and without a guardian angel to guide me, I just might die today. Maybe tomorrow. I wish she could feel this hollow. We met a moment too soon and connected when it was already too late.
Warfare: Live, from the Gutter
(About the Ammunition)
Something tells me that our efforts are futile,
my facial muscles ache from forcing this blue smile.
Devoid of pigment, this stranglehold's a figment of a sick imagination made real.
And as the color sinks down beneath skin so taught,
I'm seeing black and white flashbacks of the wars I've fought.
Retreat to the bunker to face off with the hunger for a comfortable bed and a home-cooked meal.
But this isn't about the ammunition, I could fire off shots all night.
It's a self-sacrificial act of contrition for the wrongs I can never make right.
The ammo's ready but a war cry is needed
and with these chains at my throat, I stand silent and defeated
I choke out a surrender with airways so slender, my white flag flies unseen.
My infantry bailed when the first shells exploded,
and when I reached for my gun, I could've sworn it was loaded
but the chamber holds blanks, I guess this is the thanks I get for positioning myself in-between my comrades and enemies,
discharged amenities lie on the ground like dysfunctional toys
In spite of the battle, I speak my death rattle
unheard beneath the din of artillery noise.
But this isn't about the ammunition,
the mortar doesn't phase me a bit.
I've taken my position in this suicide mission
and I've come too goddamned far to quit.
Finding solace in couch-cushions and tablescraps
Searching for treasure beneath red x's on fabled maps
The armada creedo simply doesn't hold true,
I know what I've been told, and I pass it on to you.
Life doesn't wait up and karma's a bitch
and though it shakes me to the core like an eternal nervous twitch
I'm coming to terms with the spoils of war
even though, long ago, I lost sight of what the fight was for.
Pride is Placed Before a Fall
...and when the world stops turning, I'll be there laughing loud at the splendor of it all. Shrieking and squealing and making a scene. Down we'll go, spiraling far out of orbit, reaching for hands to hold on to. The ones that fed as we bit down, squeezed as we pulled away. No one is thankful for grace anymore. No one considers their own Caesar-esque plight; that glimmering knife in your back was stolen from the place you sleep.
...and when the world starts burning, I'll sculpt a monument out of the ash, a reminder of what we've done. You're a part of it, and this life is in shambles but you'll never recognize. We're all blind to destruction, this mental corruption, this crime.
I'll spike my blood and poison every bite they take.
I'll sever my own last nerve just so no one else can get to it.
And then I'll rot away, decomposing gallantly, and everyone else will laugh, too. I hope you're all listening carefully, I hope you're all watching vigilantly.
I'm losing my mind.
Instability by Moonlight
I've been thinking about celestial bodies and the like, and how I wish I were one, because the distances between terrestrial counterparts leaves room for comfort I could use. My own private atmosphere of carbon monoxide and solitude. But there are figures in numbers too awful to count, their thoughts projected through dark, starry eyes in all-too-certain stanzas of separation. I can feel galactic spaces being bored through unapologetic flesh.
And when we meet face to face, I can tell that I'm not wanted here right now. Their whispers so deafening, their tongues are made of glass.
Cut me again. Leave a good scar for me to resent you by. I've been dining on fumes for too long; strike a match and ignite my passages. The North Star in my chest will guide you safely home. If you could teach me to breathe, I'd still yawn a blaze of glory upon the ground.
Last month I broke both of my legs on purpose and I walked for the first time. Next week I'm working on my spine just so I can stand up straight again. None of you will see me suffer, it's all in storage and I can handle the rent. What I'd give to find my agony drawn to the curb, ready to be dealt with(out).
They'll find me in a crater beneath the lunar foliage, exquisitely torn apart. I'll have a smile, a grin of singularity, and twilight in my gaze.
The satellites surrounding would envy my radiance but only gaze on from afar.
This is the beginning of my end.