25th Floor (& High on Rebellion)
We explore the men's room.
We don't give a shit.
Ladies' lost electricity;
take vows inside of it.
Desire to dance;
Too startled to try.
Wrap my legs 'round you,
starting to fly.
Let's explore
up there, up there, up there,
on the twenty-fifth floor.
Circle all around me,
coming for the kill, kill, kill
oh kill me baby
like a kamikaze
heading for a spill.
oh but it's all spilt milk to me.
Desire to dance;
Too startled to try.
Wrap my legs 'round you,
starting to fly.
Let's soar
up there, up there, up there,
on the twenty-fifth floor.
We do not eat
flower of creation.
We do not eat,
eat anything at all.
Love is, love was, love is a manifestation.
I'm waiting for a contact to call.
Love's war. Love's cruel.
Love's pretty, love's pretty cruel tonight.
I'm waiting here to refuel.
I'm gonna make contact tonight.
Love in my heart.
The night to exploit.
Twenty-five stories over Detroit,
and there's more
up there, up there, up there.
stoned in space. zeus. christ. it has always been rock and so it is and so it
shall be. within the context of neo rock we must open up our eyes and seize
and rend the veil of smoke which man calls order. pollution is a necessary result
of the inability of man to reform and transform waste.
the transformation of waste
the transformation of waste
the transformation of waste
the transformation of waste is perhaps the oldest pre-occupation of man.
man being the chosen alloy, he must be reconnected—via shit, at
all cost. inherent with(in) us is the dream of the task of the alchemist to create from
the clay of man. and to re-create from excretion of man pure and then soft
and then solid gold.
all must not be art. some art we must disintegrate.
positive (anarchy must exist.)
in background:
(i feel it swirling around me
i feel it feeling no pain
i'm waiting above for you baby
i know that I'll see you up there
i'm floating in a door backward
on boundaries over this world
i'm waiting above in the sky, dear
upon a [ ] ...)
High on Rebellion
what i feel when i'm playing guitar is completely cold and crazy, like i don't owe nobody
nothing and it's just a test just to see how far i can relax into the cold wave of a note. when
everything hits just right (just and right) the note of nobility can go on forever. i never tire
of the solitary E and i trust my guitar and i don't care about anything. sometimes i feel like
i've broken through and i'm free and i could dig into eternity into eternity riding the wave
and realm of the E. sometimes it's useless. here i am struggling and filled with
dread—afraid that i'll never squeeze enough graphite from my damaged cranium
to inspire or asphyxiate any eyes grazing like hungry cows across the stage or page. inside
of me i'm crazy i'm just crazy. inside i must continue. i see her, my stiff muse, jutting
around round round round like a broken speeding statue. the colonial year is dead and the
greeks too are finished. the face of alexander remains not only solely due to sculpture but
through the power and foresight and magnetism of alexander himself. the artist must
maintain his swagger. he must he must he must be intoxicated by ritual as well as result.
look at me i am laughing. i am laughing. i am lapping cocaine from the hard brown palm of
the bouncer. and i trust my guitar. therefore we black out together. therefore i would run
through scum. and scum is just ahead, ah we see it, but we just laugh. we're ascending
through the hollow mountain. we are peeking. we are laughing. we are kneeling. we are
laughing. we are radiating at last. this rebellion is just a gas our gas a gas that we pass.
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