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Description
I.

you have a mask of rosary beads and i've never seen your face,
    carved    out from whispers,    and
carved    out    of   dreams
     of high pavement ordering a funeral march,
with your rosary beads in place, drowned from drinking

i found you

hiding in the line, waiting for your shower, holding your face

behind your holy words spelling a smile

"And you can believe me, becuase I never lie,
and I'm always right...",
      spoke in petty whispers, curses,
drawn out and strung high on
          bible verses

in the    paucity,
   of metaphorical twighlight,
your voice was found
         buried under and hiding behind
those holy words //   because I've never
    seen your face, these days,
erased, underneath these holy words,
      carved out of whispers
of words and dead-curses

divinely decreed,
    by the man with the godhands,
with dirty words

     set forth
in crooked quotations...

"son i'll see you there"


II.

I'll not know no one, not him, no, not me
beneath these steel mountains and under yes underneath

near the craters with the green apple dip

, deep, underneath, yes underunderneath,
where shallow valleys grow and deadwings are thrown,

in silouhettes

  i'm not no one not one to cast
seeds out,
planting apples in rows of red in green where the earth won't grow,
in the water,
in the mirror,  I'll not know no one, not him, no, not me,
not talking to no one, not talking to me

, under water and under sea, where these apples they grow so large,
in silhouttes cast out beneath the ground, casting seeds, under sea,
in this water, under mirror, i'll know not a thing, i'll know not
no one, no not no one not me,
ever underneath, you picked an apple off the tree
and you gave it to me

III.

9 2 5,
       you're printing daguerrotypes of your own faded self,
    like clockwork, nestled in a concrete shell,
           watching the image develop slowly, metal on metal on heavy
             -metal music, from your speakers in your cold cubicle, a slowly
     drawn out death, watching your image develop (or at least what's left) -

                  it's all in  in in
                               standstill

   the seperation of the corpereal and otherwise occurs in a rather systematic motion,
         clock on clock on tick on tock on conveyance conveyers and elevators, lit up in
                _cold kerosene glow,

9to5,
   it's the noise you make when you sleep
so deep - these tin mountains
      ( and you could dream there if you wanted )
             in cold kerosene glow

and if you did -
  would you dream of clockwork, or vast seas of imagery (all these things oh these things are so prodigal;
       mechanical in notion, motioning you towards this false façade,
          of conveyance conveyers and elevators - becuase this will never stop
                or cease to be, becuase these movements are futile,)

and all the meanwhile...

    nine to five,
have you lost yourself again -
  in these TIN MOUNTAINS and STEEL CLOUDS
hanging - so near to the ground

you've got to remember -
  that your faulty daguerrotype
is hanging by thread over your disheveled bed,
and with every t-u-r-n of these faulty gears, it dissapears
  into something far more fleeting, so the fears -
     ( life death marriage divorce disease work work work pay got to pay the bills and oh, did i leave the oven on again?)

-And terms, they turn, And grinding, they find
    objects that are never spoken, and words never
         -H E A R D

  becuase you once met a man, and he was kind,
showed you things you would never find,
   and his name was father time

9two5,
   that clockwork hangs over your head
and a fading daguerrotype is above your bed
   and you still dream only in monochrome, but tinted in blue,
     (a certain kind of disquieting hue)

"I never thought of myself as the type
            to die so suddenly",

          written faded to a line, to a hand, moving rubber stamps

          to block out the light of pin prick pinholes ruining the type,

          screaming red light time nine to five

  following in dark rhythm to the beat of your shoe
shuffling along the washed out pavement

with a hard face falling back at you

                with incestuous eyes hollowed out above

                crow covered masonry hiding directly in front of you

                inside of you trapping you with tell tale hearts

beating bad in bad science with bad men with

ninetofive darker things following in bad night

everynight shaking out your favorite routine

of sleeping at nine

to five it all starts over.

your mirror followed you the morning you died

your head as a stopwatch stopped on the red line

        starting over for the final time

you're fading out and fading in

                in direct light as something else

with the cold gaze of something you used to know

smiling back at you
with a question:

"are you the    type of man
who would   die so suddenly?      or    cry himself     awake
   in the last minute of a moviescreen play
and     lose yourself
   in these false   facades    of crows,
and   go back
    to the beginning again?

becuase      i've   got a question, for you,
   and it's ringing with airs of deadair stares
and    allthevoices in your head
     tell you    to just keep

movingonyou'removingon and yourmirror followed you to
sleep that night, daguerrotypes, of what you always wanted to be

so     tell      me     a  story or sing   me    a song
blacksuit, you're never wrong

just    wrapped up
in    this     facade of crows"

and with a whisper
       he fell
                 and ran to the outer edges of his page,
stained with the ink
from the hollywood undead, runing ever word they touched
faded out and sractched off,

nine to five

you woke up again

with your shoes on and your suit tied tight
and full of light, pressued smooth and hard
like all you are was store made

and fake

and you never saw that light come on,
no you never saw a thing,
becuase you    ran, a whisper,
to the   edge    of this  blank page,
with ink     by     ink   by hollowed   ink
strained, across the page, making their way

across       to      your       shoes,
but what's there to lose,
because you knew,
that for the life       of      you,
these   blues, these blacks, these whites,
you could never make yourself drown
and   so    you    moved    out
and    ran across that page
and    spilled    your ink
and said no words
and       an     empty    daguerrotype    hangs over    your head,
and   you    finally    fell    asleep
in that disheveled    bed
and you neverknewbetter, but you neversaidnever,
yes you always knew better than this,
and     so         with your shoes and your suit and your suit laying
lied,
you     felt            your     wings   rise,
and all these things;thesehopes;thesepettylittledreams;
you   could    meet them there in   the    seams
and we could try writing.

IV.

i saw your brother in the hall

ripping yellow paper from the wall

it's a party and your

face is bright and blue,

it's a party

I'm the unfriendly buck of

terrified luck caught stuck

in the dark red cloud of the

dance floor music

I'm the big dumb kid

ripping your teeth out

and planting trees moving your

neatly arranged leaves out in

a crooked square picture framing and dark

I saw your brother in the hall

ripping yellow paper from the wall

and i saw him tapping on the stall

i'm the unfriendly buck

i'm the big dumb kid

I'm not the best of sorts, but I'm the best of ghosts

V.

i'm the low heaven death mask

: ,   in   the   back of    your mind,
       i'm   the high hell  first of last,
  that you     will      always find,


  the never ever ever did who never did,
your heavy skeleton that creaks and leaks

   ,
   the never ever ever did who never did,
your heavy skeleton that creaks and leaks,
           in  deadgrin   of halfspeech,
    if never ever,  if evermore,
grasping      for    diamonds   and curses
and sunlight,
    wandering   fields like corpses,
  killing off time with our corpsucle selves,
looking     for that    which   once
   made    you   infinite,

  with a sunbleached skin hanging off
my elk antlers,

i'm the dead king crushed
          ,deadman faltered,
and a    half-head   hearted   hearth,
   over god's green earth,
  "I'll NEVER, EVER, evermore,   tell a story or
sing a song,  I'm still moving back and forth,
and I KNOW what's right and wrong. Don't tell
me to give up my ways, I'm only a man,
   and i've got glass hands..."

VI.

three days ago you practiced holding your breath
   in a shallow bathtub filled with words
and spilled ink


      and you turned that water,
incarnidine
  and you set that city on fire
"and this is final,
    as denial, as decreed,
and I'm always right, yes I'm always right, you can't doubt me,
becuase i'm always right"



     this place could be a home
if you filled it with whispers
   and    secrets    revealed   only   in blacklines

"why won't these walls talk?"

   and your face was so,
Incarnidine,
  and the earth it shook that day
and the icebergs they melted    (nobody noticed)
   and the sun burned itself away,
incarnidine



( "I decided, long ago,
     that my face should be made of stone,
carved straight from the rock,
   of a holy martyr's grave.

      and you   can   never   stop me from making
  these lefts, these rights, these   crooked    quotations,
becuase    i'm    always right,   yesyes always right,
don't tell me otherwise" )


your voice is a canticle of empty words,
   unheard, and   outspoken,

"and we've never felt safer, than now
with our bullets and our cameras and our glass-shielded shelters
  throwing stones     at   the water
and still none the wiser"






    you turned your hands incarnidine,





and you severed your right arm
  in a swift cut
and left the rest to chance



put down your gun.















( " i've bloodied my hands, i've bloodied my hands... " )

VII.

this is   my house,
    and these   are   my hands,
and   these are my bones,
    and I am a man,
    this is my gun,
and i'll be damned,
            if   i    ever   make  a mistake
       in   my life again,

   fuck you, look at me,
i'm the man,
     with the toomanythings,
i'm all your not,
      you're all i want,
and i'll have you, yes i'll have you, i'll get what i want.


   i like my gun,
and i like my house,
   and i like my hands,
and i do what i can,
  because i'll never see a movie,
in my life again,
  and i'll never be wrong,
no no i'll never be wrong,
and i'll always,
always be alright.

  because i'm a humble,
marauder, with these fists and this brass,
    and i'll never listen to you,
you speak too fast,
  but you'll listen to me,
because i'm all you'll see,
    when i block out,
the sun.

Description
I.

you have a mask of rosary beads and i've never seen your face,
    carved    out from whispers,    and
carved    out    of   dreams
     of high pavement ordering a funeral march,
with your rosary beads in place, drowned from drinking

i found you

hiding in the line, waiting for your shower, holding your face

behind your holy words spelling a smile

"And you can believe me, becuase I never lie,
and I'm always right...",
      spoke in petty whispers, curses,
drawn out and strung high on
          bible verses

in the    paucity,
   of metaphorical twighlight,
your voice was found
         buried under and hiding behind
those holy words //   because I've never
    seen your face, these days,
erased, underneath these holy words,
      carved out of whispers
of words and dead-curses

divinely decreed,
    by the man with the godhands,
with dirty words

     set forth
in crooked quotations...

"son i'll see you there"


II.

I'll not know no one, not him, no, not me
beneath these steel mountains and under yes underneath

near the craters with the green apple dip

, deep, underneath, yes underunderneath,
where shallow valleys grow and deadwings are thrown,

in silouhettes

  i'm not no one not one to cast
seeds out,
planting apples in rows of red in green where the earth won't grow,
in the water,
in the mirror,  I'll not know no one, not him, no, not me,
not talking to no one, not talking to me

, under water and under sea, where these apples they grow so large,
in silhouttes cast out beneath the ground, casting seeds, under sea,
in this water, under mirror, i'll know not a thing, i'll know not
no one, no not no one not me,
ever underneath, you picked an apple off the tree
and you gave it to me

III.

9 2 5,
       you're printing daguerrotypes of your own faded self,
    like clockwork, nestled in a concrete shell,
           watching the image develop slowly, metal on metal on heavy
             -metal music, from your speakers in your cold cubicle, a slowly
     drawn out death, watching your image develop (or at least what's left) -

                  it's all in  in in
                               standstill

   the seperation of the corpereal and otherwise occurs in a rather systematic motion,
         clock on clock on tick on tock on conveyance conveyers and elevators, lit up in
                _cold kerosene glow,

9to5,
   it's the noise you make when you sleep
so deep - these tin mountains
      ( and you could dream there if you wanted )
             in cold kerosene glow

and if you did -
  would you dream of clockwork, or vast seas of imagery (all these things oh these things are so prodigal;
       mechanical in notion, motioning you towards this false façade,
          of conveyance conveyers and elevators - becuase this will never stop
                or cease to be, becuase these movements are futile,)

and all the meanwhile...

    nine to five,
have you lost yourself again -
  in these TIN MOUNTAINS and STEEL CLOUDS
hanging - so near to the ground

you've got to remember -
  that your faulty daguerrotype
is hanging by thread over your disheveled bed,
and with every t-u-r-n of these faulty gears, it dissapears
  into something far more fleeting, so the fears -
     ( life death marriage divorce disease work work work pay got to pay the bills and oh, did i leave the oven on again?)

-And terms, they turn, And grinding, they find
    objects that are never spoken, and words never
         -H E A R D

  becuase you once met a man, and he was kind,
showed you things you would never find,
   and his name was father time

9two5,
   that clockwork hangs over your head
and a fading daguerrotype is above your bed
   and you still dream only in monochrome, but tinted in blue,
     (a certain kind of disquieting hue)

"I never thought of myself as the type
            to die so suddenly",

          written faded to a line, to a hand, moving rubber stamps

          to block out the light of pin prick pinholes ruining the type,

          screaming red light time nine to five

  following in dark rhythm to the beat of your shoe
shuffling along the washed out pavement

with a hard face falling back at you

                with incestuous eyes hollowed out above

                crow covered masonry hiding directly in front of you

                inside of you trapping you with tell tale hearts

beating bad in bad science with bad men with

ninetofive darker things following in bad night

everynight shaking out your favorite routine

of sleeping at nine

to five it all starts over.

your mirror followed you the morning you died

your head as a stopwatch stopped on the red line

        starting over for the final time

you're fading out and fading in

                in direct light as something else

with the cold gaze of something you used to know

smiling back at you
with a question:

"are you the    type of man
who would   die so suddenly?      or    cry himself     awake
   in the last minute of a moviescreen play
and     lose yourself
   in these false   facades    of crows,
and   go back
    to the beginning again?

becuase      i've   got a question, for you,
   and it's ringing with airs of deadair stares
and    allthevoices in your head
     tell you    to just keep

movingonyou'removingon and yourmirror followed you to
sleep that night, daguerrotypes, of what you always wanted to be

so     tell      me     a  story or sing   me    a song
blacksuit, you're never wrong

just    wrapped up
in    this     facade of crows"

and with a whisper
       he fell
                 and ran to the outer edges of his page,
stained with the ink
from the hollywood undead, runing ever word they touched
faded out and sractched off,

nine to five

you woke up again

with your shoes on and your suit tied tight
and full of light, pressued smooth and hard
like all you are was store made

and fake

and you never saw that light come on,
no you never saw a thing,
becuase you    ran, a whisper,
to the   edge    of this  blank page,
with ink     by     ink   by hollowed   ink
strained, across the page, making their way

across       to      your       shoes,
but what's there to lose,
because you knew,
that for the life       of      you,
these   blues, these blacks, these whites,
you could never make yourself drown
and   so    you    moved    out
and    ran across that page
and    spilled    your ink
and said no words
and       an     empty    daguerrotype    hangs over    your head,
and   you    finally    fell    asleep
in that disheveled    bed
and you neverknewbetter, but you neversaidnever,
yes you always knew better than this,
and     so         with your shoes and your suit and your suit laying
lied,
you     felt            your     wings   rise,
and all these things;thesehopes;thesepettylittledreams;
you   could    meet them there in   the    seams
and we could try writing.

IV.

i saw your brother in the hall

ripping yellow paper from the wall

it's a party and your

face is bright and blue,

it's a party

I'm the unfriendly buck of

terrified luck caught stuck

in the dark red cloud of the

dance floor music

I'm the big dumb kid

ripping your teeth out

and planting trees moving your

neatly arranged leaves out in

a crooked square picture framing and dark

I saw your brother in the hall

ripping yellow paper from the wall

and i saw him tapping on the stall

i'm the unfriendly buck

i'm the big dumb kid

I'm not the best of sorts, but I'm the best of ghosts

V.

i'm the low heaven death mask

: ,   in   the   back of    your mind,
       i'm   the high hell  first of last,
  that you     will      always find,


  the never ever ever did who never did,
your heavy skeleton that creaks and leaks

   ,
   the never ever ever did who never did,
your heavy skeleton that creaks and leaks,
           in  deadgrin   of halfspeech,
    if never ever,  if evermore,
grasping      for    diamonds   and curses
and sunlight,
    wandering   fields like corpses,
  killing off time with our corpsucle selves,
looking     for that    which   once
   made    you   infinite,

  with a sunbleached skin hanging off
my elk antlers,

i'm the dead king crushed
          ,deadman faltered,
and a    half-head   hearted   hearth,
   over god's green earth,
  "I'll NEVER, EVER, evermore,   tell a story or
sing a song,  I'm still moving back and forth,
and I KNOW what's right and wrong. Don't tell
me to give up my ways, I'm only a man,
   and i've got glass hands..."

VI.

three days ago you practiced holding your breath
   in a shallow bathtub filled with words
and spilled ink


      and you turned that water,
incarnidine
  and you set that city on fire
"and this is final,
    as denial, as decreed,
and I'm always right, yes I'm always right, you can't doubt me,
becuase i'm always right"



     this place could be a home
if you filled it with whispers
   and    secrets    revealed   only   in blacklines

"why won't these walls talk?"

   and your face was so,
Incarnidine,
  and the earth it shook that day
and the icebergs they melted    (nobody noticed)
   and the sun burned itself away,
incarnidine



( "I decided, long ago,
     that my face should be made of stone,
carved straight from the rock,
   of a holy martyr's grave.

      and you   can   never   stop me from making
  these lefts, these rights, these   crooked    quotations,
becuase    i'm    always right,   yesyes always right,
don't tell me otherwise" )


your voice is a canticle of empty words,
   unheard, and   outspoken,

"and we've never felt safer, than now
with our bullets and our cameras and our glass-shielded shelters
  throwing stones     at   the water
and still none the wiser"






    you turned your hands incarnidine,





and you severed your right arm
  in a swift cut
and left the rest to chance



put down your gun.















( " i've bloodied my hands, i've bloodied my hands... " )

VII.

this is   my house,
    and these   are   my hands,
and   these are my bones,
    and I am a man,
    this is my gun,
and i'll be damned,
            if   i    ever   make  a mistake
       in   my life again,

   fuck you, look at me,
i'm the man,
     with the toomanythings,
i'm all your not,
      you're all i want,
and i'll have you, yes i'll have you, i'll get what i want.


   i like my gun,
and i like my house,
   and i like my hands,
and i do what i can,
  because i'll never see a movie,
in my life again,
  and i'll never be wrong,
no no i'll never be wrong,
and i'll always,
always be alright.

  because i'm a humble,
marauder, with these fists and this brass,
    and i'll never listen to you,
you speak too fast,
  but you'll listen to me,
because i'm all you'll see,
    when i block out,
the sun.