Same Old Nothing

bread and roses

bread and roses

we want bread…

and roses

was buzzed on codeine

fuzzed my dreams

i like the itch

i like delirium

i wrote a lot of letters

to family, friends, love and lust

things i exude, in a waveform

they would recognize as me

doing something with energy

i know i'm not the worst off

i'm in the top three percent

of the bottom one percentile

so i should be happy there are six million

worse than me, globally

six million make do with less

six million killed their sex drive

with selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors

and have found comfort in television

three thousand in this country alone

three times as many as died at dieppe

which means whatever you want, comrade

i don't want chemicals and i don't want a song

though i've got one, another one

a surplus of songs

maybe this human being’s worth for scheming for

maybe that one’s worth a scheme, a seedy scheme

a contrived method

method acting, employing

my true heart-felt rusty lust

to creak open a door with a near-forgotten password

the tongue of the great old one, a charmed avatar

for a wall-smashing caprice, a stunt

ending in stagger

jackass

possibility, fantasy

what would i do with this ridiculous body anyway?

what would i say, if it came into play?

it will end in a tryptamine dream

the place where possibility is torture

and pain subsumes pleasure

healthy ribald wretch, twitching reptilian riddle

insoluble

efforts are contrived

and the worst part is i know

there’s something that could fill me

but what are you gonna do? huh?

what could you do? i mean really

come on now - be realistic

what do you do with the drunken sailor

is there a tank i can sleep in for a while?

is there a deck i can swab?

is that what she said?

what could you do? i mean really

come on now - it's a riddle for a reptile

we're on a more sophisticated level

in negotiation with chaos, a butterfly

dictating the terms

and what could you do, maybe i made a good

enough impression once upon a time

to cash in a mercy fuck in 2012

it's a date, it's fate!

bread and roses? bread and roses?

i’ll trade you some bread for some roses

it’s a trading post

post partum depression

i didn't like the womb
and i don't like what's outside of it

it’s post orgasm for the organism

now i’m hungry but there’s nothing in the fridge, so…
licorice tea is the only thing separating me from the void
i need a new word for the void
but i don't have one

this is what i look like in the morning
when i don't care
i'm wondering what i'll look like to the others
when my living arrangement changes
will i find new people to be unkempt around?
i've always wanted to grow a big fuck off beard
i've always wanted to be myself

but there's something in the way

something in the way

because the dog almost had his day
almost got his treat one day, almost
thought he had it so his brain jumped the gun, said

good boy in the language of neurotransmitters, you got yours
but it was a game, higher level than he could understand
and he hadn't gotten his after all, but the imprint

the imprint imprinted
and every time the bell rings
though he knows, now, it's futile, failure
he still feels the feeling, beyond his control
hardwired to possibility, and the neurotransmitters
flow, beyond his control, here they go:

the craving for those healthy natural endorphins

brain's reward for meeting healthy natural objectives
like having healthy natural children
with healthy natural girls
on healthy natural birth control
at the healthy natural drink-hole
will make me do unhealthy
unnatural things
for no gain
but memories
of my brain flooding with endorphins before
reaping the real reward, a rush

like a hoot of crack, leaving me wanting more
then leaving me lacking and

calling the void a void

for lack of anything

else to call it

memories, imprints

face recognition sub-routines

sophisticated modern analogs to primal social cues, hardwired

contours, sweet voices, degradation that runs
on the same circuits as libido
because those things gave me that rush
i can't grow my fuck off beard

because even though it gives me a warm tingly feeling
to tell everyone to fuck off
and even though it makes me feel at peace with myself
like i'm on god's tranqs, a spiritual, syphilitic traditional

hardwood hymnal, in the organ loft, haunting your opera
nonetheless, i crave
and facial hair is one thing i'm willing to control
to maximize potential

for being loved
physically

because i'm so bored with my mind
and anyone who loved me for that
would have to be seriously ill

which is why i'm rich
in half-crazy platonic contacts
so useless for my agenda
so motherfucking useless
so cocksucking useless
and not crazy enough
discerning, discriminating
you know who's gonna provide
the endorphins you need, it ain't me

yes, it's just an ancient chemical craving
it means nothing but that, that petty thing
so just pretend i've got my fuck-off beard right the fuck on
and fuck off… and i'll save myself, from myself


audio version