in lockesh(?) i'll hold my breath
till i'm blue
till the next time i see you...
i'm recording the vocals in my underwear
your s*** sounds like you recorded in a hoodie on a hot day
with a f***** ball cap tilted to cover your right eye
your s*** is fake
you're play acting
this ain't drama class
it's unhealthy
it's only boosting your bipolarity
until the hankerchief of history covers us with its
times new roman black and white post script, i will wear
lavender shirts in yellow painted public restrooms,
looking like art decco in my september complexion
and red against blue skies,
and have those pictures taken to be proof
against the dull mood of your highschool history teacher that - (we wore color)
that we distributed the seeds of dead dandilions
in the cement surrounded city parks,
that we let our skin soak up the sun despite the advice of modern science,
that we sometimes wore our hair long and let it curl
and never combed it or put it in braids,
that we taught ourselves to play the pots and pans
so that we would have something honest to dance to,
something soulful to sing to,
and sometimes we had trouble seeing past our own reflections in the bedroom window,
because it was dark outside,
and the flourescents inside left shadows under our chests
and sculpted the torso to look it's friday night fittest, yeah i'm vain,
there was life here before there wasn't,
and before that there wasn't,
but seagulls still ate shallow water fish,
morning boys still cast tall shadows
and all the while the stars are slowly seperating.
???
these are songs to be listened to after i'm dead
when old women start wearing their hair gray
these are songs to help an ant find its shadow
songs to b**p in your moon cruiser
two thousand sixty, top down
hair blowing in the absence of air
and grooving to the shhh...
till i'm blue
till the next time i see you...
i'm recording the vocals in my underwear
your s*** sounds like you recorded in a hoodie on a hot day
with a f***** ball cap tilted to cover your right eye
your s*** is fake
you're play acting
this ain't drama class
it's unhealthy
it's only boosting your bipolarity
until the hankerchief of history covers us with its
times new roman black and white post script, i will wear
lavender shirts in yellow painted public restrooms,
looking like art decco in my september complexion
and red against blue skies,
and have those pictures taken to be proof
against the dull mood of your highschool history teacher that - (we wore color)
that we distributed the seeds of dead dandilions
in the cement surrounded city parks,
that we let our skin soak up the sun despite the advice of modern science,
that we sometimes wore our hair long and let it curl
and never combed it or put it in braids,
that we taught ourselves to play the pots and pans
so that we would have something honest to dance to,
something soulful to sing to,
and sometimes we had trouble seeing past our own reflections in the bedroom window,
because it was dark outside,
and the flourescents inside left shadows under our chests
and sculpted the torso to look it's friday night fittest, yeah i'm vain,
there was life here before there wasn't,
and before that there wasn't,
but seagulls still ate shallow water fish,
morning boys still cast tall shadows
and all the while the stars are slowly seperating.
???
these are songs to be listened to after i'm dead
when old women start wearing their hair gray
these are songs to help an ant find its shadow
songs to b**p in your moon cruiser
two thousand sixty, top down
hair blowing in the absence of air
and grooving to the shhh...