answer that and stay rational

i know it's time to end the silence but it's hard to speak i'm so frustrated. i've always romanticized violence but your reasons feel outdated. and now it's not even that you're got your blinders on, two-eyed people, dog-like, following a blind person, but once people who can't think for themselves start thinking to themselves that we're all going to hell, better watch out for the (invisible) death cartel. some people think dissenters need saving, some think they need death for graven images of prophets. imagine the profits (spiritual) one could reap or profits (monetary) that one could keep for killing some hated goldstein figure, pull of a trigger or maybe something bigger, how about a whole hotel straight to the hospital? hey!

Storm Surgery

shacked up like a war wound. eyelids heavy, brain is de-tuned. legs thrown around. oblivious to sound. run my tongue around this cracking mouth, backwards cite the hippocratic oath. i think something's gone wrong here. the television's attack is relentless. smiling, grinning war-profiteers. the coverage is twenty-four seven. i'm spent, miss. take my deadpan away for wiretaps. don't know what to say so i'll excrete higher maps to nothing they want to find anyway. and i'm starting to get resigned to this confusion. to this pollution. the tv's relentless, and hey, miss, i'm spent, miss. the wires fester from my sweaty skin. fall alive and then get dead again. time means nothing these days, these ways i'm falling. the phone's off the hook from relatives calling. they can hear my head whisper so i chose to de-list her. my body's a levee and i can feel her breaking. my eyelids are heavy and won't someone please stop the shaking? shacked up like a war wound, close my mind and let myself be fed-spooned. okay computer.

too punk to fuck (la femme idéale)

this is an ode to the out-of-reach, an elegy for the stuck-up bitch. fake living perfect on a plastic beach, dying pretty, distant, angry and rich. pink promiscuity tracksuits you so well. sunglass cage, pursed lips, and how i wish you'd go to hell. i hate it that i want you so badly. i haunt you 'cause i hate you so madly, and it feels like you're all the same. still, i can't keep saying my instinct's to blame, exploring the caverns of the want/need dichotomy. you breathed, blushed and your pretty eyes got to me. i'd ask you to leave me alone but you're doing your best already, so i'll sit here and imagine you moan while you live out your fucking tragedy.