The weight I miss
Is the burden of love
it made a crook in my back
Now I have no use for my cane
Is the burden of love
it made a crook in my back
Now I have no use for my cane
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
trip one
The sound of swing jazz fades from my ears and I find the world spinning around me like a tuesday morning hangover and the forest is a polaroid narnia,
the lamp post the rabbit hole falling into the swell of my lungs,
dumb dumb dumb
and blind to the tunnel behind the eyes
I see roads through the trees and oils in the mould and I wander why it is I can't go in that mans house
or what the world would look like without eyes
or why I know not anything or what it is to know,
not in some lecture room philosophy proposition but in the cock thrum of the numbers in the universe or the strange feelings that trees ooze,
which paint my vision orange as sun like renoir fills my nostrils and mccahons pigeon cries TUI TUI TUI in the thermonuclear pink haze of my absent-minded-self-absorbed finger nails digging through the soil,
burning my soul in a plastic manufactured crazy single beat,
that drives me and fills my ears and drowns me,
dumb dumb dumb
I am the fundamental madness of my solipsist self
which sits in a shut door room with a floor barren of cigarette ash but furnished instead with the tequila cough feeling of not being able to think of something and feeling guilty of not being able to think of anything, nothing, trying to find mystery in that tunnel behind the eyes or fullness between the keys and guitar, and finding instead only that they have work tomorrow
and work for the rest of the week
and work work work always as some ill defined illusory weight or cage,
the idea of the fryer shackle or the business suit designed by a texan oil baron with a hard on for al capone,
grotesque and grotesque as my reflection,
drunk and high and silent in apprehension and daftness,
dumb dumb dumb
I let you down and blame it on a strangeness which at least fits well on the tongue,
I drift in silence,
I am daft,
dumb dumb dumb
the lamp post the rabbit hole falling into the swell of my lungs,
dumb dumb dumb
and blind to the tunnel behind the eyes
I see roads through the trees and oils in the mould and I wander why it is I can't go in that mans house
or what the world would look like without eyes
or why I know not anything or what it is to know,
not in some lecture room philosophy proposition but in the cock thrum of the numbers in the universe or the strange feelings that trees ooze,
which paint my vision orange as sun like renoir fills my nostrils and mccahons pigeon cries TUI TUI TUI in the thermonuclear pink haze of my absent-minded-self-absorbed finger nails digging through the soil,
burning my soul in a plastic manufactured crazy single beat,
that drives me and fills my ears and drowns me,
dumb dumb dumb
I am the fundamental madness of my solipsist self
which sits in a shut door room with a floor barren of cigarette ash but furnished instead with the tequila cough feeling of not being able to think of something and feeling guilty of not being able to think of anything, nothing, trying to find mystery in that tunnel behind the eyes or fullness between the keys and guitar, and finding instead only that they have work tomorrow
and work for the rest of the week
and work work work always as some ill defined illusory weight or cage,
the idea of the fryer shackle or the business suit designed by a texan oil baron with a hard on for al capone,
grotesque and grotesque as my reflection,
drunk and high and silent in apprehension and daftness,
dumb dumb dumb
I let you down and blame it on a strangeness which at least fits well on the tongue,
I drift in silence,
I am daft,
dumb dumb dumb
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)