Wednesday, January 7, 2009

This is my country, here is my blood

Throw your head back. Supplicate. Tug on that dream, ease that itch. Bite that thought, stroke her brain. Sink that slough.

Wait, you've got to get that mood music, man

Cut that quest. Climb out that cesspool. Drop that gun, tread on your tight-rope switchblade - up, down, slash, stem. Dig your ditch. She is your tool. You will use her. She is your tool. You will own her.

Hey, don't forget that mood music, man

Stroke her oxygen. Touch that nightmare. String in the stars. Mirror my malady. Thrum my sorrow. Soak it out, squeeze her heart. Ease out the objectivity, you are jingoistic. She is your tantra, and you are only her anthem. Shed your thick skins, she only wears you. You are vociferous only because she is your tongue.

Listen, now, it's only your mood music, man

Cut that clamour, it won't bring anything back. You are here, you can be no better. Kill the ideology, hold on to that thought. You're tuning in and out, how is she to catch you?

Hey, it's only your feel-good music, man

Lose sight. Fall in. Your certainties are only fallible delusions. You can only turn to her. She is your life. You will breath her. She is your life. You will own her.