Riding midnight rails on a self-esteemed engine.
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Tapping hopelessly on plastic keys.
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A bottle of friendly next to me and it never gets done.
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It never gets done.
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Midnight oil tapped clear.
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A lobotomy in action.
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Hitting walls at the turn of my head.
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It's a quail's call echoing in the head.
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The fingers move small emotion
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like ligaments strung out, taught like string.
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Limp like dead fish trying to find water to breathe.
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Overworn and confused.
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Reaching in air for words
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I'd hoped to appear.
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What was put in the system last night
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is smelling up the skin.
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It's open like deep sky.
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I need a lift in my head.
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I need hours in a day.
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I want to hide behind the dresses of women I've never met.
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It works well this way
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this machine-like function.
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Eyes swollen over halfway shut.
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It works well this way.
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Looking into walls.
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Fishing for humans in a moat.
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It never gets done.
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With this it never gets done.
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It's open like deep skies, like deep skies
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falling on the pillars of demon gods.
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Sometimes the hands just fall on the book of a god.
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Clenching your teeth hope he'd finally give you a nod.
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Save me please.
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-----------------
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Abracadabra
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| These Arms Are Snakes |
