the cracker box suprise

wasting time
waiting for thoughts
that never were born
the city dump of my broken heart
broken glass and old newspapers
a shit, shower, and shave
there goes my main lady
she works at a liquor store
she makes enough for bacon and cigarrettes

in the center of the room
lives the hollow voice
it has fallen from heaven
in a beautiful flame
it speaks of the end of all time

this is the real world
another wheel turns
fortune spins its web
we are caught by reality
victims of progress
victims of our rituals

the worms eat the beautiful
there is a mountain of garbage
outside my window
there are hundfulls of unhappy
the heart tries to find a difference
no familiar face
no familiar body

this was the common age
we shared the smoke and the bottle of rum
no more blisters on my fingers
wandering around lost
wandering the streets
like a piece of shit
a toast for the dead
we meet the dead everywhere
in your Soho markets
in your tumble weed streets

exotic cafe
haunted by legend
attracking flies
elegant and striking
you were having a thing
for Jackson Pollock Shoes
selling your vacum cleaners door to door
it was all so grand and tortured
sirlion burgers
an expandable teen idol
a unique place for self

you thought of them as an equalizing force
crispin glover chilled to the bone
ingredients of the machine
love and sex
drug addicted and troubled
loudly removing myself from the room
I am fundamentally abscent
I am not here
recycling the ritual of death
there are so many forms
making it weak, taking the strength out of it
I loaded one cartridge after another

the alarm clock is ringing
bared feet with eyebrows
she has a big ass
sits in the hole
pats around the sides
she is the scarecrow

bullet holes in the wall
the last execution
desolate rooms
making plans
to extract the needed thing
the grocery boy turns into a thief

dollars and wine
to take the taste of stale beer
a ritual of grilled meat
we listen through the paper thin walls
there is a preacher asking his wife for forgiveness
she drags a trunk out of the building
it sounds heavy, full of crime
we have filled it with the sins of our fathers
we are working on the syntax of the apocolypse
and yesterday's love