I was going to tell a story,
but I forgot what it was,
so I'll say something else.
I'm tired of being lonely.
Is there a place for us passionate ones
besides the hell of unfulfilled desires
and unrequited love?
Maybe there's a place -
yes, that's it, a place!
(I've said it three times now) -
we can go
where pain
is nothing
(nothing)
(no thing)
(NOTHING)
but just a slick knife across a throat
or a sly bullet through so many thoughts
that'll never see the day anyway.
Ah, but dreams are for fools,
so I'll shut my fucking mouth now
and go to sleep.

Never

I'm so in love with you,
and you're so not in love with me -
that's why the world
will never stop spinning
for us.

Hey, you , when you talked to God today,
Did He have anything interesting to say?
Maybe something you could share with me too?
Or was it just between Him and you?

Oh, we talked about saints and sinners,
The world's best losers and worst winners.
And we talked about Life and a little about Death too.
But no, we didn't talk about you.

Well, I was just wondering, if God had His way
Whether Life would be all work, Love, and play.
Or would He still make us cry, fight, and die too?
Tell me, did He say anything about this to you?

He'd just finished lunch and was looking ahead to dinner,
Maybe find a fresh of measure of Time and skin her,
Though He did say He had other things on His mind too.
Next time, my friend, we'll talk about you.

When you bit me
Out in the shade
of the apple tree,
I came
Harder
Than I’ve ever come.
Maybe it was your straight teeth
Or maybe it was my tough skin;
I don’t know
But I remember
Wanting you to do it again.
Will you follow me
Out there
Where you bit me
And made me come?
Or do you want
To bite me somewhere else,
Maybe another place
Out of reach of the sun?

I wish my Life
were a CD-
I'd find track 21,
hit REPEAT,
and listen
to all the dumb shit
I used to say:
proclamations of Empire
from the once-and-future king
of his own demise.
Insanity's never been a problem.
Lives, like songs, create themselves,
only to be discovered
by blubbering fools.
Why can't they end
the way they begin,
a sputtering,
The Big Bang,
perfect,
without a scratch
or skip,
mysteries for generations
to come to solve,
just before they push STOP?

I try so hard to say
something that hasn't been said before
that I say nothing at all.
Silence.
Silents.
A theater full of hats and gowns,
colored by black-and-white images,
reading words they'll never hear
but in their minds.
We can only do so much
with what we've got
that our tears don't mean anything anymore.
When the thought-
THE THOUGHT-
arises, grab it, shake it,
don't let go
till it's stood the test of time,
then watch it float away,
shrinking with distance
until another comes along.
I try so hard not to say
something that's been said before
that I say nothing at all.

Write your song
and leave out
all the important words