Hung From The Rafters Or Just A Clothesline
Head held high, all there’s left is a man’s pride and a knuckle sandwich. Will my work windbreaker ever be hung from the rafters or just a clothesline? Cup holder filled to the brim with dimes, I just wanna melt them down into a trophy. Spent more time working than living a life I earned, when will I learn the politics of time. It’s an economic miracle that i’m not financially floating with West Germany. I will survive in this environment haggardly but there surely has to be more to it. The flip side of complacency has to be emptiness. There ain’t shit on television tonight, nothing indeed. Martin Short’s stories ain’t long enough. The hit songs of today bow to the math of love and dance but I still get no satisfaction from the scary scarcity that is often looming. The babies playing with the bead maze toys can even see that there are two left at the end. My heart too big for the real world but the doctor wants to suppress it when I bring it up. This can’t be a form of greed if i’ve never practiced the overconsumption of anything. The alarm clock wakes me up after take five and I don’t want to go like it’s my turn at the high dive. To California with complacency, stop by the rope store and have it hung from the rafters or just a clothesline because the standards of living is beyond it! My Lack of complacency has lead me to the want to unravel the true truth of Coil man; the fucker was on heroin. Can’t do rock & roll then become Coil man out the purple, his limbs are a metaphor for where he was injecting himself. I’ll party with him if it means it will help with rearranging my future history lesson. My cellphone ain’t beeped in some time like it came in the path of a cannonball and a crossbow. The heavy metals barbecues the human I am; this ain’t no picnic! The factory don’t be gentle with any man because it’s the opposite of nature. I still take my bmx bike to work to remind who I once was. The valet parker from my route to work told me to save myself from the pain and embarrassment. He’s been parking cars for years without a three car crash in the roar of the masses. He’s parked some of the finest red wagons that this town has ever seen, some may be rented but that’s what they are for. For show and not for a roller jump or a drop in. Wearing one of those derby hats like he’s a native to the bowling alley. Taking no opinions from the reporters who don’t know if their ego belong hung from the rafters or just a clothesline. He’d be a hell of a bobsledder if he cared but he doesn’t have a cow about lots of things. He wears red like he’s greeting you from hell; the world according to him is strange to me. Strawberry jam red uniform and the stashed tequila keeps him composed even if Michael Jackson walked in from the dead. Drop him off in untitled latin america at the start of june, the storm in his clay house is just a spillage for the glory man. With all that said, the life of you can’t be foisted upon me. I read the shit from my old notebook, there is no cohesion in what my trajectory was supposed to be but it didn’t mention a factory. A bum could have my work windbreaker, the five cent deposit left in the inside pocket could fund a corona. Let the toadies at the factory fend for themselves like vietnam all over again. It’s expected that i’m gone and I don’t look back now, retreating has no exchanges!