same old nothing (<-- click for an audio version)
bread and roses
bread and roses
we want bread…
and roses
was buzzed on codeine
fuzzed my dreams
i like the itch
i like delirium
i wrote a lot of letters
to family, friends, love and lust
things i exude, in a waveform
they would recognize as me
doing something with energy
i know i'm not the worst off
i'm in the top three percent
of the bottom one percentile
so i should be happy there are six million
worse than me, globally
six million make do with less
six million killed their sex drive
with selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors
and have found comfort in television
three thousand in this country alone
three times as many as died at dieppe
which means whatever you want, comrade
i don't want chemicals and i don't want a song
though i've got one, another one
a surplus of songs
maybe this human being’s worth for scheming for
maybe that one’s worth a scheme, a seedy scheme
a contrived method
method acting, employing
my true heart-felt rusty lust
to creak open a door with a near-forgotten password
the tongue of the great old one, a charmed avatar
for a wall-smashing caprice, a stunt
ending in stagger
jackass
possibility, fantasy
what would i do with this ridiculous body anyway?
what would i say, if it came into play?
it will end in a tryptamine dream
the place where possibility is torture
and pain subsumes pleasure
healthy ribald wretch, twitching reptilian riddle
insoluble
efforts are contrived
and the worst part is i know
there’s something that could fill me
but what are you gonna do? huh?
what could you do? i mean really
come on now - be realistic
what do you do with the drunken sailor
is there a tank i can sleep in for a while?
is there a deck i can swab?
is that what she said?
what could you do? i mean really
come on now - it's a riddle for a reptile
we're on a more sophisticated level
in negotiation with chaos, a butterfly
dictating the terms
and what could you do, maybe i made a good
enough impression once upon a time
to cash in a mercy fuck in 2012
it's a date, it's fate!
bread and roses? bread and roses?
i’ll trade you some bread for some roses
it’s a trading post
post partum depression
i didn't like the womb
and i don't like what's outside of it
it’s post orgasm for the organism
now i’m hungry but there’s nothing
in the fridge, so…
licorice tea is the only thing separating me from the void
i need a new word for the void
but i don't have one
this is what i look like in the morning
when i don't care
i'm wondering what i'll look like to the others
when my living arrangement changes
will i find new people to be unkempt around?
i've always wanted to grow a big fuck off beard
i've always wanted to be myself
but there's something in the way
something in the way
because the dog almost had his day
almost got his treat one day, almost
thought he had it so his brain jumped the gun, said
good boy in the language of
neurotransmitters, you got yours
but it was a game, higher level than he could understand
and he hadn't gotten his after all, but the imprint
the imprint imprinted
and every time the bell rings
though he knows, now, it's futile, failure
he still feels the feeling, beyond his control
hardwired to possibility, and the neurotransmitters
flow, beyond his control, here they go:
the craving for those healthy natural endorphins
brain's reward for meeting healthy
natural objectives
like having healthy natural children
with healthy natural girls
on healthy natural birth control
at the healthy natural drink-hole
will make me do unhealthy
unnatural things
for no gain
but memories
of my brain flooding with endorphins before
reaping the real reward, a rush
like a hoot of crack, leaving me
wanting more
then leaving me lacking and
calling the void a void
for lack of anything
else to call it
memories, imprints
face recognition sub-routines
sophisticated modern analogs to primal social cues, hardwired
contours, sweet voices, degradation
that runs
on the same circuits as libido
because those things gave me that rush
i can't grow my fuck off beard
because even though it gives me a warm tingly feeling
to tell everyone to fuck off
and even though it makes me feel at peace with myself
like i'm on god's tranqs, a spiritual, syphilitic traditional
hardwood hymnal, in the organ loft,
haunting your opera
nonetheless, i crave
and facial hair is one thing i'm willing to control
to maximize potential
for being loved
physically
because i'm so bored with my mind
and anyone who loved me for that
would have to be seriously ill
which is why i'm rich
in half-crazy platonic contacts
so useless for my agenda
so motherfucking useless
so cocksucking useless
and not crazy enough
discerning, discriminating
you know who's gonna provide
the endorphins you need, it ain't me
yes, it's just an ancient chemical craving
it means nothing but that, that petty thing
so just pretend i've got my fuck-off beard right the fuck on
and fuck off… and i'll save myself, from myself
Ф