a three-way deathmatch between franz ferdinand, frantz fanon & franz kafka for possession of my eternal soul

i'm not in the business of loosening lips or playing games, but rather sinking ships and laying blames. give me a border right now and i'll cross it, honest. gush down the drain into you like from a faucet. tallest tale i could ever tell: finding my way to safety from this hell. i guess the difference is distance. i'll hack through every vine that i can see, but the only one looking out for mine is me, so i'll play it safest when i'm feeling bravest. take projected earnings and revenge burnings and sudden turnings in stride. i don't have feelings so who really cares what i look like inside? liars and cheats, and "just trying to make ends meets." we're all in this together. and while it seems like forever, in a few minutes we'll wish for a change in design. from the other side, things seem so strange, besides.

starving at tiffany's

i'm feeling overdone like lyrical clichés: it's last call for rhyming "pull it" with "bullet." i'm feeling so done in like when you say that "he says." it's not going to be honest so i might as well bullshit: you're like a goddamned lottery ticket. keep on trying and eventually i'll stick it? (will all the losses pale in comparison to some far-off imagined monetary win?) stay tuned, i'll bet we'll find out soon. maybe it'll be the next one. and the next one, or the next one, it'll be excellent. just you wait and see. everyone will want to be me. go ahead and pick up my slack — because i am never coming back. i'm leaving this land of milk and floods. momma always said, "beauty is as beauty does," and i've asked around; we all agree that you've got it, but it was a toss up until you jumped up and caught it. my hopes too, but they must come down. if i fell from my cliff i know i wouldn't make a sound.

dancing!!! (animasque in vulnere ponunt)

i've got seven goals in a period, see, and you're still not taking me seriously. i can go through the motions same as anybody else. sure, the uniform's changed, but the smirk is just the same. don't put me on the shelf. i can hold my hand to my heart same as anybody else. sure, the rules have changed, but the game is the same. don't radio for help. i've got my colours on my sleeve and a number on my chest. maybe we can make believe that this is all for the best, and maybe we can get out of this alive. the odds are high but i'm dying to survive. and the edge or dead centre, but couldn't it both? i'll pour my insecurities into a cup and make a toast. lose myself to the dance floor, as i compete with the dead to see who can romance more. i'll get over myself eventually. until then content yourself with watching me bleed. until then, content yourself with watching me be me.

close to ghost

god save the queen, the king is dead. god loves a liar, it's the witch instead. and i'm finally coming close to finishing this off. all i need is the cash, the grab-&-smash state of mind and the kiss-off. is it the best thing i could do? don't have the time to calculate hedons, but i bet that you would too given the situation and the smell of freedom. so sick of dancing in this macabre ball, i'm finally coming close to ending it once and for all. ding dong, the witch is crying. long live the king's son. the king is dead, fuck, the king is dying, did you think this was fun? now tell me, what did you expect? something other than a wreck? we were so close to the coast! so now we're finally coming close to ghost.

the navarro dardanelles

caught up in a scandalous dream with turtlenecks and fabulous cream. could someone tell me where i'm going wrong? 'cause i hate to catharsize myself through song. it always means hang-ups about the stupidest things, and all the knots & tangles that thoughtfulness brings and could someone tell me why high school is never dead? with so little said i don't know what's there to be over-read. still feeling like a kid, was it something i did? but i know it's not about me in the end. just another one too dumb to pretend. it took me longer to notice but that doesn't change what it was. just another stupid link between "why?" and "because."

wheat field with crows

so when you quit driving nails into my eyes for just a bit i'll pry the hammer from your goodbyes and sling it so far away finding it'll take forever less a day. the most common problem with webs is they won't leave you alone, but as this familiar tide ebbs i'm dying just to keep my home from breaking apart. i can see the cracks spreading like the dark and i wish i could say something worth saving. these frowns in hard-hats just won't ever stop repaving my past, half-assed, now half-past long past due. the time for half-mast has passed and if there's something i wish i had amassed, it's you.

big steps (dark satanic thrills)

it's not so much a pain as a shock-hurt, even thought the breakdown's just like clockwork. so i'm sitting here trying to be bobby oppenheimer with an emotion explosion and a ticking egg timer. a smile and a hug, denial and a tug at a heart in my head, of a hand in my bed. we know how this goes, the very same thing at all the very same shows. i've never been able to avoid you, not to mention all the tricks that annoyed you and i'd tackle/tap that crackle, snap popping of my dream bubble. these fingerprints can only mean trouble. i've never been there before but goddamn it i want to go. now i'm stuck in a detour and goddamn it i'll never even know (let alone come close).

henry david thorough: (speaking) eloquent (with my hands)

i hope you're getting something out of this. cause if it was me, i know i wouldn't be missed. "oh that's just life, love and strife." don't give me that shit. i'm staring at you, pleading, and it's hit or miss or just take the piss and get it over with. and when i manage to forgive, i'll let you know. until then, i'll watch you as you go. and these hands aren't strong enough to accomplish all the million things that i'm dying to get along with but at least i'm not that crazy, right? credit that to my hazy sight, and a marked lack of guns but not of fear. every new day's a step further away from here. and why won't i die? because beneath this mask, don't you know that i'm not a spoof? that i'm more than flesh. ideas are bulletproof.

the ascetic aesthetic: ni vu, ni connu

frail little frowny-stars, self-obsessed behind chocolate bars. curled, crumpled up inside. fetal position, nowhere to hide. your insecurities show through your figure. so afraid of getting bigger. face taped to the instruments of torture. these motherfuckers are making a fortune. the happy medium's not enough. extremes aren't as rough to embrace. look yourself in the face. the mirror's friendlier than the toilet. your life is not a race. don't let their money spoil it.

ineffectual

nobodies strewn across this dead-end street. the wind keeps driving back my feet. so true, so bereft of you. faces grin and moan, but i can do this on my own. i'm still not quite sure what happened. now there's no shelter from that wind. with or without you, i can't live. you've seen how i am, you can't give me what i'm dying for. whispered wisps of beauty got me sighing "whore." who needs sleeping pills when you've got knives? who needs you to leave me behind?

les superhéros

darkened streets and haunted windows. in every avenue, in every alleyway. in the right light, the city's sin glows. i'm a battering ram coming right your way. caped, gloved, masked, restrained. i don't think this needs to be explained. our lips can do the exploring, our bodies the talking. stares from church spires boring holes through the backs of the mocking. manhole covers shift a little, moonlight shivers. laughing gas and poison-arrow quivers. arch-nemeses rise up, only to be defeated. exist but to be replaced and then repeat it. i'll enjoy your stay with me up on the rooftops. but we know you'll be on your way soon as the moon drops. i'll kiss you goodbye, give a little sigh and wonder why. it's something i can't deny.

fuck crowdsurfing (a mistake in progress.)

normal expectations were on the run, but it seems you've sapped the fun. and you turned me into a post-statement liar, balancing on this debasement high-wire. faster than i had a chance to say, "what the fuck?" and the friendship is stuck. jesus fucking christ, your mistakes are so high priced. she smacked her lips and grabbed your dick, i smacked myself for coming on the trip but now we've moved on to bigger and better things. standing in shit and i'm looking for a set of wings. the day i learn to fly i'm never coming down. in the back of my mind i hope you'll drown.

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.

"...ill met by moonlight, proud titanic..."

shackles crumble. they start to rumble. hoods slip off, pulled by reawakened hands. eyes ablaze as they form roving bands. jumpsuits now a symbol of power. and for the rest: that sweet superiority's turned sour. imagine the look in his eyes, the surprise, when that face he'd never paid too much attention to hunts him down; makes him eat his vomit off the ground. and i've been told not to confuse revenge for justice but it would be nice for just this one time to see black and white reversed. and i can see your reactions: they look so rehearsed. condemnation. anger. hatred and, er, what should we call it? racism is frowned upon these days. even when dealing with these fallen-but-now-risen excommuniqués.

Cutting Veins Away

ink me up and down, i want my veins to run with black. cut them away and watch gravity pick up the slack. as i fall i'll ask you to take up this, my attack. laying down to rest in death between the dying cracks. this means more to me than you will likely ever know. i alone will, in the moment, understand the meaning of when i am meant to go. a blood pact with a stranger i'll never meet. going out with a fftt, what a way to be complete. last call for memento mori, i'm praying i won't feel sorry. life and death are but two sides of the same coin. smile on my face as i watch opposing corners join.

The Hand That Cradles The Rock

savour the taste, feel its embrace. feel the weight in your palm, dying trying just to keep calm for another moment or two. the time is nigh but the whole thing has yet to start. another moment or two before the beginning of the end, before you get to play your part. bask in the heat, the sun, your anger, light on your feet, your eyes filled with rancour. this is what it all comes down to. the charges have been laid. there are things they shouldn't get away with, there are prices to be paid. the hand that cradles the rock strikes hard. anger from your pains fills your lungs, it fills your veins. and you: don't think you can get away with these games cause when it pours, it raises fists straight from the ground. can you hear that sound? that's what you sowed coming back around.

(No Relation) and Statue of Liberty vs. Brendan Shanahan

three feet in the grave, digging up bones. this summer it seems we're all dead ramones. black leather, bad weather. jeans torn at the knees. no upstroke: it's not a joke. we're all adopting names that end in "ee"s. the kkk took my baby away and these days i just want to have something to do. blood is gushing, rocket's russian. when i'm down you know it's carbona not glue. song titles that begin with "i don't." and when you leave, you know i'm glad to see you go; go mental.

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hold it up, hold it up high. thinking you've got it in the bag. got your arm raised up to the sky, hoping to see our shoulders sag. but you missed it. and you kissed it goodbye. nice try, but you kissed it goodbye. standing right there to pop it in the net. looks like all that's left for you is regret. i'm not sorry. you thought we were your quarry. moving on to bigger and better things. you're left counting your many rings from yesteryear. nothing to fear but pride in self. you'll excuse me when i don't drink to your health.

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so that was fun to get some new stuff done. i don't think either is 100% yet but... both are good starts. i still have to write "The Hand that Cradles the Rock" and that should be enjoyable.

Crossed Out

snoozers losers, wakers takers. this time around, i'm the faker. finders keepers, losers weepers. this time around, you're the reaper. seventeen years under the curse, but i'm out of this hearse. and the best thing, or should i say the worst: you're still immersed. keep your knees bent, keep your head down. plug your ears so you can't hear the sound. that prison is where the answers are found — just don't look around. after all these years, still playing on the same old fears. i'd ask them, "where's your shame?" but i know how good they are at this game. seems i can only swing and miss so i will just leave it at this: fuck religion.