03 December 2010

If I Were You

Thoughts are not things. Thoughts are thoughts.
What with all the connections they bring.
Your tongue ain't sexy, and words can't talk--
even alone together, pen and paper can't sing.

If I was you, I'd start heading east
with roads to trip over clumsy feet.
Those feeble shoulders that shrug you along,
nagging you forward to the gravel's swansong:

"There's two types of suicide: in control and out of it.
To understand the latter is equivalent to suckerfish.
To understand the former is to clown behind the clout of it.
If you understand anything, there's nothing to accomplish."

The song gets in my mouth, a small claims court of hassles,
as the ruling states philosophy has a tendency to travel.
If it's so wrong to bite the hand that feeds me,
is it okay to complain the meal looks a bit seedy?

She said, "I thought you were dead again."
If she throws up in the sink then I might win.
Nevermind, she's fine, she's drinking again
-- evidence that gravity's proof is original sin.

My mouth becomes your medicine cabinet,
yipping on sweet nothings of expired aspirins,
all because you're too foolish to know...

thoughts are just words that have yet to happen
and words are just some substantial noise
that has forever been off-key, clapping
to anything at all, from the crunch of an apple
to a small swampy sample of space
with God's big ol' footprints all over the place
while these muddy skies just take it all brazen-faced
with each molecule sexed up in leather and lace
because that's what were into nowadays.

Yep, he's Our Father, our big-time mack daddy,
smacking around hussy angels when they start acting catty;
and I'm falling asleep to the joke that he didn't bother sharing
and empty threats that some thing might maybe start caring.

I'm left with neon lights and a pocket knife,
and everything is exactly how it seems:
A man, two grocery bags, out in the night,
taping up his fingers to topple my childhood regime.


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