The Corpses Of Our Motivations

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The Corpses Of Our Motivations

Catching up in the basement that I call home. dismantling discussions on a piss soaked telephone. I'm all grown up. I've thrown up these feelings lots before. you're sitting in the park while I'm staring at the door enough self mutilation. I've waterlogged and choked one hundred beers, another week ensconced in yellowsmoke I'm no devil, I just have these demons keeping me awake, pushing on my go-leg, laughing at cut brakes. the corpse of my motivation hangs in the closet to the comfort of the grave. this coffin's full of nails, rails and pipe and glass, rotting under yellow growing grass. five in the chamber and I'm flying through the air. I've tied my blindfold tightly, I'm cutting my hair. I'm a bullet and a target, and I'm drenched in splattered blood. I've learned my lesson one time but once isn't enough. so dry your hands, wash 'em clean of me. wave your victor's flag on your pile of debris because when you die like a hero, you live like a slave. I'd rather die to see it change than live and watch it stay the same where the corpses of my motivations hang on the gallows over-ripe with shit like colostomy bags (pie anyone?) there's a party in the woods and a dance in city streets and a rumble down the avenue of fifty thousand stomping feet. and the fire is getting high, igniting sweaty powdered brows. and if he hasn't saved you yet, he isn't gonna save you now, ...and you're more beautiful than you were on the day that we first met. my angel of the not yet buried dead.

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