Trust

Do I trust myself?
Do I trust myself?
If I trust myself, I'll follow, I have one broken toe, but No, I don't care about that, I'll follow, with my eyes closed.
Do I trust myself? I'll follow with my eyes closed.
Do I trust myself? I'll follow with my eyes closed.
I think I need to return to my routine.
Remember organization equals liberty.
Remember organization equals liberty.
How do I know if I trust myself?
I write in the dark. Church bells flood the streets in the morning, church bells flood the streets.
Sway Danny sway, the ringing of the church bells fill the streets. Sway Danny sway. The nonbelievers emerge from their cold dark quarters. I know what to do, I know what to do, and I'm going to do it.

Ilk

The old folks and their friends are my friends until we die, we fly side by side, high above the rocky cliffs in our hot air balloon that we made out of our own skin...we're really talking about sacrifice here! (I pull out a tooth for the mademoiselle, she hops around overcome with delight). My hair falls out like blades of summer grass, like snow onto the floor, and when I raise my head, I see people of all ilk. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. I give them my hand and instantly I'm dragged, swept off my feet, taken away by the mirthful, buoyant and very merry group—aged, gray and beautiful (I love this race!). My heart bounces around from one happy person to another, and I'm just in the fucking zone. I look down and I see my hair—little follicles on the floor—and I can see the mademoiselle, holding my little tooth, in the eyes of these old folks sharing me amongst their friends and I see how real this is: the mirth, the rapture, the ecstasy—the interdependence! I climb back into our hot air balloon and remove the weights.

Lemonheads

Lemonheads, 25¢, are one of least expensive food/candy, making it very popular in impoverished areas; they are exceptionally satisfying when you’re doped up.

Singing in the Rain

the bells & the whistles...all i've got is my sleep, my enemy who knows only the worst parts of me, i'd like to strangle him, i squint my eyes and fire and dance as a flock of dead birds rain down upon me, uplifted from my roots i stab repeatedly at my dead foot (numb), fear of hypnosis, I pluck the feathers from my newly acquired wings to demonstrate that it's only a coverup. i reach down inside of myself to taste myself, but instead I break down and cry, watching each bird dart back into the night sky, i trace their departures, drawing a line, connecting the dots, carving a small cavity into my own torso—wrecked, defunct, ugly and beautiful by all means to me—the flesh is putrid. I cannot take it so i squint my eyes and fire again at the flock of birds above me. I don't know if what I'm doing is right, but the sun's in my heart and I'm ready for love.

Discoteque (and Mr. Sundown)

the heroes and the cyclops shake hands. they not only shake hands but they shake their asses. its a peculiar island hermaphadides island. the way they do things here are quite unlike how they do things in the city of angels as the angels prefer to glide and waltz gently departing the earth. it aint about flying for them for they've already got wings. they prefer to walk and dream and suffer and long like us. but they are not us, the heroes and the cyclops. they dont know how to shake their asses like us. they lack the beats. purple and scrumptious, shapes of teardrops, they thrive in harsher climates like hermphadides island. we harvest the shit out of them and then we shake our asses. long live the union between the heroes and the cyclops in hermphadides island. i pray that the angels will one day catch up to our asses.

I kill myself in my dreams so that I wake burning for life.