I'm desperately lunging in the dark,
To hold something pathetic, like the last time I fell down in reminiscing,
I'm slipping in the bull pens of life, smelling awful,
To get wherever you're going you need to wade through shit,
And in the end there's the catatonic horseman riding perpetuall into a sunset,
High above the feces of failure we lay on fields after coating ourselves in its stench,
He smokes, long black Djarums and brags of holidays in Thailand,

I blame the tv,
For everything.
For an uncontrollable emotional reaction while watching Old Yeller,
For bleak tumble weed blowing across my tarmac playground as a child,
Making my imagination grow as dismal as the evening news,
And thinking I'm American while I remembered to pray to a God I never knew,
and anthems,
It's supposed to prepare us for life,
Those wasted hours making posters, paying lip service to salvation in education,

I'm waiting for the sun to set to lurch out on the street,
While memories become a topic of obsession and passion,
A fire that consumes each jagged edge transmutated into ash,
I call art,
That's really just confusion,
Cause out there in the daytime it hurts,
The billboards and tight asses,
Toner applied like a cheap facelift for a superficial culture waylayed,
Symetry with no thought called aesthetics and propped up by propaganda,
It's cool,
I'm not.
Still the sun sucks the life out of me in mornings I stumble on rocks and raised pavement,
Trying to divine some meaning from tags on railcars throwing rocks at invisible citadels,
You're all there, staring at the sidewalk, wishing ten other people could help you feel secure,
In the herd with dynamics and politics to make it all apropo and appropriate,
So your concerns will be heard, your ideas listened to.

But me I'm out here lunging,
Tripping on my feet for some meaning in motion more marvelous than mundane,
Mundane, it's my reflections,
My typecast character of rebellion against myself,
I want to smoke again while I walk, sway my hips with each sudden shift in weight,
Running from rapists I used to know as friends,
But never thought about it,
They're concerned with you though,
Walking alone, unguarded, individual,
They violate you with body parts,
And me,
With this promise of greatness,
Pathetic and desperate,
This disassociation from reality,
For some sort of recognition they don't care about,

It's all bullshit,
Walking alone,
Waking up to a radio in bed with blood stains,
Some sort of art we turned out to be,
Simply sex perverts and memories,
Of cycles and reproduction,
Longing for the comfort of Orgies,
And belief.

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