Pull my iris open wide
black dots with flag poles
Pour through my ears and into my mind
Plowing through the bits of metal that clog my desk.

Scalpel and music at hand
The sweet smell of paint takes me back to a left-behind land.
There’s paint on my hands and when I’m sleeping I stand and accept that there’s blood in my brain at the foot of a judge we call life.

Missed the last rocket for Saturn and live under bridges with
painted-on friends.
Where did the time go? What happened to not worrying about who I am and
what I do?

I’m a kid who takes after people who have it made, whose brains are still pumping without the buildup of paint on their hands and blood in their brains and brains in their blood, they have it.

Wanting a smoke-bath to clean myself I can only jump as far as the moon,
but my matches won’t light.
They won’t light in an atmosphere so empty that it chokes and leaves behind the corpses of dreams; the moon is very old.

Is that how I’ll be in the end?
Shrunken and small and accepting?
I will always want war but how can I achieve it when
my fucking dreams become night-terrors after I paint,
I still answer to someone.

How can I grow when my roots are glued to the spot?
Do I have it?
No, but will it be just as good when I do?

I don’t know who I want to be, but when the blood in my brain
and the paint on my hands boils, I will have to find out fast.

These worries are the things that make me awful yet more independent somehow. They are the parasites that keep sucking for their dear lives;
They’re dear to them and dear to me so leave it to ferment in my brain,
filled with the perfect mixture of red and while blood cells, perfect for me.

In my dreams the blood is cleaned up by aliens who don’t give a fuck about human rights, and they imply I should not paint but do not say it outright; so I still do.


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