You be the building and I'll be the fire.
She'll be the one on the funeral pyre.
All night and day I will dance around you
and climb you, as I try to escape these
twirling images. At the moment I no longer
want to deal with these words that drip
like blood, each one a little city etched
with a smoky memory or two of something
mildly to severely traumatic. Sometimes I
just don't want to wake up to a face, I want
to wake up to birds chirping and being blown up
by shotguns and songs about big black rivers, a
paisley haze. Every day I grow more tired of
your tiredness, of your wavering abjection, of
the way you and your country try to suppress it all
with drugs, staving off dreams like they are disease.
She'll be the one on the funeral pyre.
All night and day I will dance around you
and climb you, as I try to escape these
twirling images. At the moment I no longer
want to deal with these words that drip
like blood, each one a little city etched
with a smoky memory or two of something
mildly to severely traumatic. Sometimes I
just don't want to wake up to a face, I want
to wake up to birds chirping and being blown up
by shotguns and songs about big black rivers, a
paisley haze. Every day I grow more tired of
your tiredness, of your wavering abjection, of
the way you and your country try to suppress it all
with drugs, staving off dreams like they are disease.
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