'Apt. A, Part 1'
she's calling, she's calling me tonight,
from just inside my lips and i'll write her.
betterment of the world through wish,
wish i'd fall off, growing distant.
i'll write her,
and pull my face fresh from the waxy palms it's kept soft in.
there's something to the fading of faith.
my whole childhood was the broken guitar
and my sister's silly yellow blanket.
now i carry slender and sexy curved sledge hammers
to break the bricks i bought.
i should have never went to college,
but took a trip to costa rica to cut rainforests to choke myself.
making up miss bobafetet as i go along,
and rejecting the truths that i've been served.
besides, tuition for my countenance
pressed fine in reverse block, style print,
a product of cave drawings gone automated
with these loafers and a check book,
twisted tightly into, into..i know,
do you know how many times
i've thought about writing about the paper i'm writing on?
i lost my liquid tongue for the wet pen.
i have one mortal wish.
i don't even know where i've been...
in the basement, hugging the gas main.
something's been left out of this game.
god, did you remember to render everything?
i've seen 1078 sundays and seven borders where the liquid meets land.
i've even seen stars, now where the **** (now where the ****)
is anti-emptiness? (is anti-emptiness)
i'm leaking into stoned and severed existence.
i've been consumed by my own breath.
change of face, shapeless, personality switch, transformation,
so impersonation of self leads crowds in twos to disintegration.
who's in the basement choking a puppet on the pedestal?
let a stool pigeon escort those who contort three doors down
into the left door on the right hand side.
my hand slides into pockets, pull sockets of lead penalty.
orbs of red energy,
entering the orbit of the morbid
northern and southern hemispheres of play caps.
place time bombs and rose stems on your axle.
clear case. hole in faded ozone layer of doom,
sphere of babylon shield,
towering above gravity,
taking up space in a residence of stars.
a touching story of ungrateful velcro skulled boy,
with his tored-off face,
and the life-sized sacked marionette
he'd thought looked an awful lot like him,
with his time told and mildewed baby clothes of a business man.
jerk, wackoff slumped, and he's tired, sick with bad posturing.
one can't hold in. oh hell, there's a king of jungle in him yet.
give our young lad middle of america's valise,
but spare the gauze, he's losing poet by the gallon. glory, glory,
bottom of the quicksand's gonna give him a whole lot less to think about,
than change that steel trap perspective would perhaps...
i ain't a scared no more, to make a' the difference,
stolen heart, and a whole wide world to blame.
i've been living in a record skipped filmstrip.
i'm falling off the side of the boat and when i hit water,
i'm falling off the side of the boat.
i fall asleep hoping tomorrow tastes like poems and honeysuckle.
i move slow 'cause the sky looks bluer when you **** the order of the day
or the way the shelves were meant to fit.
i wish i had a pair of stilts to wear
while i play the flute in some light-traffic hallway in my old high school.
but these are only threats to the seated self.
maybe spain is the open-faced smile
from some life i saw in a movie, and always thought i'd live.
space is potent.