In my father’s new glass house a bathroom drawer is filled with soap. And he comes and goes, he comes and he goes, clean and lost. But dad, no thing holds us: we’re two tattoos aging on flesh in the war between bodies and signs. We try to sneak some sacred thing past death.
And but the stoics gotta surrender. And oh, I’ll lay my head down on the town altar.
And walking home is so many blank spaces. Modern horror like a passerby’s eyes holding away from my recognition. But can you imagine the abysses inside of the federal building? Some bastards bid everything on these shitty scribbles and scaffolding.
And but the stoics gotta surrender. And oh, I’ll lay my head down on the town altar.
And give it up. Give it up. Give it up…
O repression repression! Another missed connection! Another couple years shivering out the shoulder seasons. And all of my useless comforts, all of my comfortless cruises. They chafe like a metal hallway, a tourniquet on my imagination.
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