This is a straight down the line, no messing, stone cold love song (AKA: we fuck with pain)

This is....

A straight down the line, no messing, stone cold love song (AKA: we fuck with pain)

You wanted something faster.

I wanted something flashier.

But I don't crash with you.

And you could never stand second hand looks.

We've both known trauma.

We both know to be gentle with another.

We talk about starting up a funeral parlour.

I say we should call it the House of Eternal Rest.

You say it's better to name it House of the Dead.

We agree how we would decorate; 

In keeping with a deadwood town in the Midwest.

And we laugh about hiring a taxidermist.

It's a deflection; neither wants to die first.

I'm not throwing up because of my addiction, I'm throwing up because of what I'm addicted to

 

This is....

I'm not throwing up because of my addiction, I'm throwing up because of what I'm addicted to

Fear don't fail me now.

Fear be a tortured preacher.

Civility be a skeletal creature.

And I will die of complications.

Blind luck or dumb misfortune got me here.

Hanging like cat's cradle on hot tin roof.

Where I pretend like I'm not a product

of necessitations.

And I will die of complications.

 

Barely holding to the filthy midnight

sickly moonlight cobweb sail.

It just won't catch the wind on these oceans.

And I will die of complications.

Because life is about taking positions.

Putting bodies where they need to be.

The symptom not disease

Will cause me

To die of complications.

 

For someone what was will always be.

For someone what is will never be.

It's happening perfectly.

We absorb and spill out transcendence.

We caught each other's eye.

The ground beneath did not split apart,

to my surprise, I'm surprised.

I've been circling you circling myself

Bringing hindsight to a Prior Fight.

Duelling pistols drawn to our backs.

Reincarnation is something I can do without.

I study, appalled, at what once was there,

disgusted at what I now present.

I voice: "What's dead is dead, for all I care!"

But I don't really believe in it,

Nor in astrological confessions.

The stars align:

I will die of complications.

 

Sunlight shines through a petal.

The moonlight chills the bud.

Foxes aren't nocturnal

Instinctively they know the safest light to hunt.

And what is consciousness

If not a signal received from the mothership?

"So, let's get down to business

While we still can raise ourselves to the cause"

But I can't understand their insinuations

The winner doesn't change

Between philosophy and human remains

My death by complications

And what of apparitions

If not broadcasts intercepted from outer space?

Because the best of us are detuned actualisations

Never in quite the right time or place.

Just by being we distort the natural law

Resisting the inevitable,

the human conditions, the societal manipulations

Causing us to die of complications.