Oh atom bomb kiss them sweet,
yellow paper skin, but we all come from
the same beast, or Eve got a sunburn of the womb, depending on your thinking.
Over time we see ourselves as high art
because we pine for Eleanor Rigby and her lonely people. Looking back to where they come from is
only half the key, more comes from what gets bottled in times loose capsules
.
Little battleship, your sad crusaders trapped, corked in dead space while Napoleon's manhood lies in a glass case,
under an admission fee. A punch line made of a tyrant; would Josephine love him now?
History knows us well, playing on infinite repeat while we’re nostalgic for trash and hungry for the moments we steal from the back pockets of winter tableaus.
Skate away on me, the river, sitting with one eye closed, fearing what’s behind
These daily triumphs.
Living life without vices, in vises
pinching these niches already covered with stitches,
triggers to live, never dabbled in ideas of binges.
We crawl under a rock despite what they convince us
away from the trimmings, away from the fixings.
The crumbs at the bottom left for the wishless
enough is enough when talking about richness,
the only way to survive here is to own your own business
Let's run from the taxes and dance with taking chances
to ballads locked in capsules shot out into the blackness
knowing you're good no matter what the fuck happens!
Hearts buried at the opposite side of the atlas
in dirt that bleeds red in the mountains that I imagine.
Rolling hills on this canvas, while we duck in these barracks
Blowing out each candle that lights up these battles
far from a bandit, or a captain leading the masses
I don't have the will, the patience or the malice.
I tried to identify but all it did was show me the buckets
a mask that weighs down the luggage
like writing poems that just rhyme, doesn't make me a poet
ask the poets, writing about the things you'll never notice
leaving the reader in remoteness, lost in the novas
that bright light, that slowly tortures
these words make up another opus, simple enough to focus
to sit and take notice, even if it isn't a "poem"...
Living life without vices, in vises
pinching these niches already covered with stitches,
triggers to live, never dabbled in ideas of binges.
We crawl under a rock despite what they convince us
away from the trimmings, away from the fixings.
The crumbs at the bottom left for the wishless
enough is enough when talking about richness,
the only way to survive here is to own your own business
Let's run from the taxes and dance with taking chances
to ballads locked in capsules shot out into the blackness
knowing you're good no matter what the fuck happens!
Hearts buried at the opposite side of the atlas
in dirt that bleeds red in the mountains that I imagine.
Rolling hills on this canvas, while we duck in these barracks
Blowing out each candle that lights up these battles
far from a bandit, or a captain leading the masses
I don't have the will, the patience or the malice.
I tried to identify but all it did was show me the buckets
a mask that weighs down the luggage
like writing poems that just rhyme, doesn't make me a poet
ask the poets, writing about the things you'll never notice
leaving the reader in remoteness, lost in the novas
that bright light, that slowly tortures
these words make up another opus, simple enough to focus
to sit and take notice, even if it isn't a "poem"...