put money in my hand
and i will do the things you want me to

Vanity… overriding wisdom,
usually common sense.

should i delete it,
you said you’d read it
you promised you would never ruin it with sequels,

I wake for you… on and on
beyond all ideas of right and wrong there is a field,
i will be meeting you there.


the moon’s a skull, i think it’s grinning
the room is full of people now i think it’s spinning

wanted you… didn’t ask for nothing. wait for you… on and on

and i don’t need your tie, i don’t need to, tired of saying it.
we don’t need more talk, don’t empty out your canteen on the desert floor.
…ahhh, it’s all my fault


never wanna spell it out,
i just want to say that it is all my fault,
i could never spit it out,
i don’t wanna fix your tie…

never want to say we’re sad,
thankful that we got some chance,
i know you won’t get back your time,
i wish that you could take it back…


beyond all ideas of right and wrong there is a field,
i will be meeting you there.

he wanted it more than me, i suppose
i was in a rush to wait in a line.
now i hear echoes of my old self,
this is not the way to be.
all at once,
i lost my way…


is it not true, the things that we did?
come here at once and look what they did
come here shut down and tune in tonite,
learn the words that they teach you without you realizing it
come here sit down and watch some tv

mine all mine / wait your turn
cross my cross / slice his hand
not your son / not your friend / not your enemy

i rely on the little things to get me by,
conscience says “i’m ok”,
you don’t hear what they say.
“he’s not my son, search his home”
off to war,
it’s time to go hide inside
-

soft skin,
weak chin,
just walk me thru it, tell me what to do i’ll do

hurry hurry, that’s my baby
ohh, do what you can.


all the time - he waits for me.
and now we talk from time to time,

hits you on the head when nobody’s there,
then he says ‘come here could you fix my tie?’

it’s never gonna be,
to be is not the way to be.

show me where to go don’t get angry so quickly,
fuck depression…


beyond all ideas of right and wrong there is a field,
i will be meeting you there

understanding is more important than love,
if not money will always trump justice


all is lost,
i’ll find my way…
so i say,
to be is not to be.
to be is not the way to be.

I don’t feel bad, and maybe that’s because I can’t put a face to him, but in that moment I didn’t see anything but a mouth. It didn’t matter to me what surrounded that hole, whatever label I could apply to her wasn’t/isn’t coming up. What troubles me more is that it’s the same as before; I don’t feel anything at all, no shame, no guilt. That I know I should feel those things is troubling, because no matter how hard I try, I can’t. What I feel is something else — an obligation to feel bad, to say that I’m sorry even though I’m not. It’s self-serving shame for a self loathing “psychopath”. It’s penance, because I know no matter how much I hurt these “people”, they’ll never be able to wound me significantly. I’m running out of ideas.

4

No one would come up to you ask you why everything was so awful. No one would wonder why you were always in bed and no one would ask you to straighten the fuck up and get on with it. And you never would.

Cut the door along it’s frame
Mar the flesh along its gates
a bloodied bath to loose the tongue
a heightened sense to sing the song
a knowledge pure of life and death
a love so great, a frozen breath
and even

now

I think

of


it

If I had loved you, soon, ah, soon I had lost you.
Had I been kind you had kissed me and gone your faithless way.
The kiss that I would not give is the kiss that your lips are holding:
Now you are mine forever, because of all I have cost you.

You think that you are free and have given over your sighing,
You think that from my coldness your love has flown away:
But mine are the hands you shall dream that your own are holding,
And mine is the face you shall look for when you are dying.

I thought, “I want to die. I want to die more than ever before. There’s no chance now of a recovery. No matter what sort of thing I do, no matter what I do, it’s sure to be a failure, just a final coating applied to my shame. That dream of going on bicycles to see a waterfall framed in summer leaves—it was not for the likes of me. All that can happen now is that one foul, humiliating sin will be piled on another, and my sufferings will become only the more acute. I want to die. I must die. Living itself is the source of sin.