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cLOUDDEAD
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I Promise Never to Get Paint on My Glasses Again. (1)
out for the view.
i can gather myself once as a very fairly small human,
mouth made out of glass. i am my habitat,
antidote and what ripped his face off wasn't even a pain killer,
faceless and a boyish numb uncomfortable, he can't sit.
artificial day skeleton keeps him up all night (up all night),
puts himself away. he...
a wise man once said, 'fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.'
there is a me, in every kindergarten, and there is a me,
bigger than a raccoon, smaller than a building, smaller still, smaller still,
afloat with music on.
better feeling, 'aw, who you tellin'!'
everything happens for a reason.
i promise to never get paint on my glasses again.
you can't rip art 'cause it's just art.
the blood, the ink, ahh yes, the ink can bury a blade.
is this not the end of a blizzard twice the size of a rain cloud gone bad?
i'm burning puddle after puddle after puddle...'
i wonder what my mother looked like pregnant,
i've classified water damage as art.
ruining things, trilobite out on the town painting things,
in accordance with my weird ordinance.
my style is glass cutter, delicate/intense.
why, i haven't the mind for books,
shooting out the moonlight with my tongue,
depression in a vacuum. chest pains and violent nightmares,
brought me to this patch of grass and sun.
beauty is in the dead bolt,
i'm a lonely frontier boy, sordid terminal man.
primitive doll making and suspicious plant eater ogling at the magnetism.
a nibbler with cheap shades on and no contacts in.
pack leading nuissance with a way with kids, open envelope.
bringing sand to the beach cutting off...
the difference between motion and action' moving out...
bringing sand to the beach
watching all the book toe be get quiet,
'til we both avoid eye contact together,
running into sitting people i sold tickets with.
i'll have one of your finest coffees
and a table for one in the dark.
writing on the bag i bought stuff in...
all these suckers today
phone calls tomorrow
take out the garbage
briefcase with issues
i am my name tag
a party with loans out
credit! be or be broken, let artists clear stables.
i don't make up the check!
words, i just live here,
same stuff, different part of the mess.
disowned collection, joined metronome, leave monotone alone,
i am the master of the works and all their whereabouts.
portable leash for the implement, grand unveilment.
if the chisel breaks, it's got to be loud enough to sustain the builder.
we.
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oooffff... talk it out,
token go getters go get it enamored with something to.ughhhhh...
risk in the winning folk, subtle yet solemnly.ahhhhh.
extinction of saturdays inward to inward.
its confidence, i'll work for now... yeaahhhh...
i open the doors with no physical force.
zip codes ain't permanent, i can roam 'em all simultaneously.
real hard work comes easily, invest carefully.
rest this weak spell, a recipe, on the travel i broke the rulers.
dancing with no shoes across this everyday stage,
these everyday non-coincidence brought about by
living and doubting nothing special.
we need a real war, give me a field, a field day
and i only have time for explosions.
sleeping baggage, cat in my lap, a card at play,
help to a promise, dove in the subway.
loose change, in held, loose leaf, dormat.
wearing the fake nose glass, mustache.
hide behind this blade or under this sky,
it's like in the movies except for no ending.
yeah, i urinate in a cup for the art of it,
and you'll dissect all of it.
i water storage, poet like desert.
there's a lightbulb in my skull that dies everytime i try to look down or rest.
all cat owner can do is laugh at circus material.
never want to open my eyes, the world only furthers my argument.
in searching for the perfect flat, i feel so concerned.
nobody wins, you're all walking pictures of foot in mouth.
although a unicorn ride would charm.
let's call it hip hop, you don't got to be innercity or inbred.
or clear my skies like desert.
i'm in the state of 'yo', my peeps, they gather at the borders.
waiting up all night for bills.
if this is supposed to be a revolution, where are my.? why don't you just.?
one man's floor is another man's floor with a pillow on it.
and sure, the invisible enemy is a thirteen year old computer hacker.
times are hard, keeping a fish tank alive is harder.
and i'm supposed to be some sort of anti-christ.
people like me most happy.
well if that's true, why am i hellbound at the pearly gates?
the spoon king in the soup, drought like desert.
it's all the same shit but they call it clouddead,
i only got two hands and half a head.
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