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The Ready Aim Fire!
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Stop, Just Stop
Stop, Just Stop
You read big books. / I feel so small. / Why aren't you small, / my love? / You've got big hooks. / They make me hurt. / Why don't mine hurt, / my love? // You are my automatic writing, / the red tattoos behind my eyelids, / but I'm tired of firing squads, / of your bored, indifferent gods. // So when you feel brave, / I'll be your stutter, / and when you wake, / I'll be your hangover, / and when you try to get straight, / I'll be your drug dealer. / So when you get paid, / I'll gladly sell you // the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt, / the one that craves / the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt, / the one you hate. // My god, it's gonna hurt… / oh my god, it's gonna hurt / when I'm your modern American fuck, / the modern American love that fucks you up, / the one you can't love enough. // I'll have you screaming, / “Stop, stop, I'm gonna be sick. / Just stop, just stop, I'm gonna be sick. / Just stop, just stop, I'm gonna be sick. / Just stop, just stop. Well, I give up.” // While you're sleeping off / our nighttime madness, / I'll be your slow dance, / your dime-store romance. / In the morning bed, / I'll start again. / When you say when, / I'll fuck you up and fill your head // with the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt, / the one that craves / the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt. // Oh, if I keep loving you, / we'll both be ruled / by cosmic fears. / If this is loving you, / yeah, if it's this cruel, / the worst of it is here. / Yeah, my best hooks are here. / The worst of it is here. / Yeah, my best hooks are here. / Oh, I hope they hurt.
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