I don't write songs, I write anthems to hatch heads to.
How can you complain about accessibility
when I've tried for years and still don't get you.
In that time that slid away crossed by
political language and over exposed memories,
I tried to see where we all ran and
ended up face down on the sidewalk again.
I broke my bed sleeping hard and skinning sheep
while I was awake. The box cutter delight,
and the burning faceless dream. The thing itself
was full of bodies and everyone was smiling
until the thing turned fantasia and
one by one they went limp howling
in my hands made of razor blades,
egg timing ready mades, and staring at what radiates
from empty eyes and open mouths,
empty words and opened cows. So I do write
where I cannot make right what I never understood,
but dream tight to beneath the hood
of a car that drives me and takes the long way
home, over streets and under world war roads,
the two of us with nowhere to go and picking
hitchhikers from the curb to see
what words we love in common and breath
the same air until they're in a headlit ditch somewhere
and the shovels in the trunk next to the wax rope.
The bags are in my hand and the saw is gone blunt.
I'm whistling songs at work and loll headed all day.
Licking my teeth til my tongue bleeds and thinking of a way
to make more sense of what I feel
and better sense of what you've known,
better sense of what I see and the voices so far thrown
they echo to the walls and fall like glass snow,
coming back to my ears like things I've never heard,
making all the gun barrel nouns into shark skin verbs.
I don't write songs I write anthems to fall asleep to.
I don't want to know, I just want to meet you.
Shake your hand, and say okay. You are you
and I am dead. Alive, cross planes, and fucked in the head.
Let me take this driver and torque on this screw,
blow the brain matter off and add it to your shoe box
of gifts that don't matter or shine, ice rocked.
Suck on it or sit and spin. Both of those work too.
Have you ever been so high you beat yourself to bruises.
Black and green bad jazz and a case of head flu.
Take a minute to think about hot wiring your skull
before you pull your own pins and come apart like
a bomb hand made by God and then
when you think you've reached the end of your fuse
and you've used everything there is to make a mile
in your shoes, screw that fuck into your pile
and smile at the waves of rerouted electricity
to will your power for days and understand
that I don't write songs or feel ready to be read,
just like you, and that the only home I know is real
is the one inside my comatic sleeping head.
