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Description
You get in a car. The end.
No - you get in a car and the car doesn't move because it's got no engine
and you couldn't afford to replace the wheels.
You get in a car mounted on bricks and you fasten your seatbelt
and drive into the sunrise. You get into a car with no windows
and you wait for blue skies.

Hold my hand, I say;
hold your hand in your hand, fold them and refold them
catch yourself
with parachute parts, knit yourself together and together again,
pick your nails back and flick your fingerprints away.

Better times are coming, they promised you.
Better times were faking it (better times were sleeping with
your best friend because you couldn't satisfy them)
(better times think you should see other people)
Only the lucky get to be lucky. Only you, alone in yourself, can drive this car.
Drive it off a cliff, if you like.

Light your cigarette with a lighter shaped like a gun -
hell, light your cigarette with a gun. Chew down on the filter and play Russian Roulette
with no chips and all six bullets. You lose, you choose,
the gun goes click and it's just a lighter. Breathe in, breathe out. In a million other universes
your brains are wallpaper paste, your chin is in your hands and your hands
are in your lap. But not here.

Take my hand in yours in yours, clam them sweaty around me.
Pearls are a by-product, wasteful, vile. Pearls smash open like glass beads,
like beer cans, like your skull with a cigarette still hanging there.
Let my touch be the sand that you layer yourself around, pearls in parachutes,
tight in yourself and useless.

Drive your car off of the bricks, scream the metal down the road and wind silk around my neck,
another side effect. Here is the cause, and here is the effect. Here is the core:
it's full of sand. Wave over me, brush my stones into grit and make me a pearl, make me
a car that works. Spit the sand into your hands and remember me as I'm not, as I never was.
Make pearls as big as wheels and drive yourself away from here.

Put your hands on the steering wheel, cough me out of you.
Scattered on the road behind, beneath, smoker's cough of the first degree -
in another universe the gun clicks, lights, and you breathe out smoke. In another universe I
wrench it out of your hands and kiss my way into them,
hold your hand.

You get out of a car. The end.

Description
You get in a car. The end.
No - you get in a car and the car doesn't move because it's got no engine
and you couldn't afford to replace the wheels.
You get in a car mounted on bricks and you fasten your seatbelt
and drive into the sunrise. You get into a car with no windows
and you wait for blue skies.

Hold my hand, I say;
hold your hand in your hand, fold them and refold them
catch yourself
with parachute parts, knit yourself together and together again,
pick your nails back and flick your fingerprints away.

Better times are coming, they promised you.
Better times were faking it (better times were sleeping with
your best friend because you couldn't satisfy them)
(better times think you should see other people)
Only the lucky get to be lucky. Only you, alone in yourself, can drive this car.
Drive it off a cliff, if you like.

Light your cigarette with a lighter shaped like a gun -
hell, light your cigarette with a gun. Chew down on the filter and play Russian Roulette
with no chips and all six bullets. You lose, you choose,
the gun goes click and it's just a lighter. Breathe in, breathe out. In a million other universes
your brains are wallpaper paste, your chin is in your hands and your hands
are in your lap. But not here.

Take my hand in yours in yours, clam them sweaty around me.
Pearls are a by-product, wasteful, vile. Pearls smash open like glass beads,
like beer cans, like your skull with a cigarette still hanging there.
Let my touch be the sand that you layer yourself around, pearls in parachutes,
tight in yourself and useless.

Drive your car off of the bricks, scream the metal down the road and wind silk around my neck,
another side effect. Here is the cause, and here is the effect. Here is the core:
it's full of sand. Wave over me, brush my stones into grit and make me a pearl, make me
a car that works. Spit the sand into your hands and remember me as I'm not, as I never was.
Make pearls as big as wheels and drive yourself away from here.

Put your hands on the steering wheel, cough me out of you.
Scattered on the road behind, beneath, smoker's cough of the first degree -
in another universe the gun clicks, lights, and you breathe out smoke. In another universe I
wrench it out of your hands and kiss my way into them,
hold your hand.

You get out of a car. The end.