Rio
The sun is beating like a war drum
this down wind has got me wound up
I was just a marionette on a swingset
too young to grow up
too old to play blanket fort
Write down every ghost
that ever waltzed through the corners of your wrist
Tell them you’ve had enough of the 90’s
and the screaming
That every safe has been empty since
the first time death stole from me
There is no more room left for robbery
There is an angry god on my lips
dancing with fire like all those feather-heads
Who howled at the moon hoping he’d give em’ a hand
but he didn’t
So they traded off
all their dead and wounded
till the west was won
I was born from bloody ground
Suburbia stocked with symmetry
on cemeteries and promises we could never keep
I was built from locomotive steam
My ribcage pulled from the engine grease
I am 3 parts everyone else’s destiny
1 part praying to manifest the rest of me
This is a phonecall to a dialtone
Speaking echo fluently
Rio’s been calling me baby
raising hell for my ransom
I told them the accounts have all been settled
No cents in my embassy
The best proof I’ve got
Chiseled to
their mountain tops
Fabric Fingers
Do not play me for flounder
My toes are crooked like broken bells
Feet ringing melodies and hunger songs on the long walk home
The water is too close and salty
It is filling us up throat first
We are drowning from drinking things that should
have been left in oceans or bottles
the messages are all soaked and written to dead-lovers
Making love to the tune of bone violins
silver screen soundtracks selling
stories to fill seats in thumbs up hope.
You have been ringing in my ribcage like a windchime
The dreams have been sticking to my shoes upon waking
They echo in my skyscrapers trying
to keep the moon from falling
I cannot hold up the universe like I promised
I cannot hold my head up playing Thomas
I cannot keep count of the denial
Will you cut off my fabric fingers like you promised?
Must we wait so long for the morning?
