No Title For Life

Ants in my room, they wait for me to fall asleep, to crawl in my mouth and nose and eyes

When I’m in bed, they start to creep, to comfort me and tell me lies

The telephone, it never rings, they’ve cut the cord and unionized

I’m leaving food so all my friends come back to me in two by two, they prophesize

They’re in my conscience, I feel them cutting all the wires

I can’t believe it but somewhere deep inside my mind I’m feeling better, feeling better, feeling better all the time

I’m never alone and if I was, I’d start to think, but I hear them whisper every night,

“You’ll be fine, my baby. It’ll all work out in the end maybe.

Oh, you’ve gotta trust me, it’ll all work out ’cause no one’s gonna love you like me”

Holly Wood

Sold me magik

Now I can’t stop

Casting spells

I’m a twenty first century digital boy, I don’t know how to live, but I’ve got a lot of toys

Is it in you now, to watch the things you gave your life to broken, and stoop and build them up with worn out tools?

I walk the streets where the night breathes low

Every light a whisper

Every shadow I know

The city sleeps, but I’m awake

Silent steps echo where no one has been

Smoke curls through the alleyways I pass

A fleeting ghost like the memories at last

I watch the world from corners

Quiet and still decisions made with iron tempered will

I leave no trace, only whispers in the dark

A moving silhouette

I breathe in silence, I speak in eyes

I move through the night where no one hears my cries

Street lights flicker like the thoughts in my mind

Every heartbeat measured, every step refined

I’ve learned the art of patience, the power of restraint

In a world of noise, my quiet is my pain

When the dawn breaks, I vanish like smoke

Despite your pseudo-bohemian appearance, that vaguely leftist doctrine of beliefs, you know nothing about art or sex that you couldn’t read in any trendy New York underground fashion magazine

Prototypical non-conformist

You are a vacuous soldier of the thrift store Gestapo; you adhere to a set of standards and tastes that appear to be determined by an unseen panel of hipster judges, giving a thumbs up or thumbs down to incoming and outgoing trends and styles of music and art

Go analog baby, you’re so post-modern

You’re diving face forward into an antiquated past, it’s disgusting, it’s offensive, don’t stick your nose up at me

You spend your time sitting in circles with your friends pontificating to each other, forever competing for that one moment of self-aggrandizing glory, in which you hog the intellectual spotlight, holding dominion over the entire shallow, pointless conversation

When you walk by a group of quote-unquote normal people, you chuckle to yourself, patting yourself on the back as you scoff with the same superiority complex shared by the high school jocks who made your life a living hell and makes you a slave to the competitive capitalist dogma you spend every moment of your waking life bitching about

I only smoke when I drink

And I only drink when I overthink

And I only think about you

Do you think about the days when we sat down smoking wine and drinking haze, or was it the other way?

I need the smell of summer

I need its noises in my ear

Early in the morning when the sun does rise, laying in the bed with bloodshot eyes

Late in the evening when the sun sinks low, that’s about time my rooster crows