ATR

2.8.09

There's a paper tiger, held in the hands of Jabo, the glowing green child of the pristine orifice. At night he, we, take long travels through small places, every detail is ignored, our lives are subject to his leftover scrutiny. Burning flowers in the dark, silhouette in the eclipse, mother prays on broken knees for visions of fading pain, the reckless souls fly on by above, another waste in a wasted land. Who's the boy with all the answers, who's the boy who plays the gentleman's game? At dusk they go out walking, shrieking around the buildings, their flashlights echoing off their eyes like headlights, searching for the immortal Jabo which I have nothing inside of him, fucking the teacher, closing the blinds, getting off to Schindler's List, who knows the storyline anyway? Nazi's a type of bread. Tell me the secrets of your lies, tell me the paradise behind your eyes. He burns the roses on his knees, the moon looks sad. Flames lick above the stem, his eyes through them, mouth moves and says I love the way she moves. There they go again, tripping through the lines, following nothing. The backlog of magazine and newspapers piled high in the corner of the austere room, a beam of light through the blackout curtain, bodies lay here, put down by the orifice, oh holy, holy cycle, you know I've walked through your falling leaves like a lost, circling soldier. A soldier on a lonely, empty sidewalk, west side. But, regardless, this way, that way, the way needs a kiss, a naked truth, I know you're out there waiting but I'm busy they say, I have feelings only for myself and those I hate. Jabo, where has he gone now. Track him like a stolen piece a art, giving up until everyone's shot, paper tiger stand up now, make your moves. I'm on the line, off the pill, living in a lonely place. The sounds come through, I'm lookin at the moon tonight, tonight, tonight, tonight, on the moon tonight, tonight, tonight, tinnitus in space, a silent affliction, smudged marquee orbs in my watering eyes. Glowing in a freakshow, eruptions all around. Got the thorn of crowns. Nice and tight, on the stage, white lights flashing above all the doors, people running, falling, dying out to the street like I like, what I like? Defense has fallen, paper tiger's on the run, everyone's glued to their seats, their screens, Jabo's a discontinued product of my mind-- I'm still fucking the teacher. Come out like a ghost, go in like a priest, pray like a prophet, kill like a saint. What'd they say?