There's something in the air
Something that turns our skin dry
and kills our sense of smell.
I cannot even taste my lips
There are no lips left to taste
Even if they were mine,
how should I know how to feel them?
I've had lovers in the night
and I've had a childhood insight.
Only at 9 below do we truly know
what it's like to be alone at midnight.
And yet dreams of a summer breeze persist
as if anything will be different if I walk away.
But what will I truly be able to say?
I loved, I held, I did it all for myself?
See, the one who overextends themselves
has grand ambitions for only one person.
So how do I save the earth
or a mother from a complicated birth?
All I know is that love is sick, sick, sick.
Why does it have to be?
Those who give and care show us
what we can never be -
an unraveled mind content in time
for that short glimpse of a secure manhood.
Yet, all I do is take
and ultimately forsake
everything that is good.
So who is it that I truly admire?
Well, it would be myself if I ever learned
how to keep my fucking mouth shut.
So instead, we drive to DC.
Bobby Fischer was a true patriot.
I say we start parking ghost bikes in Arlington Cemetery.
What do we do with the old man in the basement?
The one with a long white beard
which is only an indicator of time spinning the old wheel,
turning the old wrench
only to go home to a television dinner-
if you make it home riding through the snow...
What about the man who drank too much coffee?
He decided to join the Navy to get healthy.
What ever became of the book he was supposed to write?
Or maybe the young idealist
who lost himself in his own fantasy?
One that is forever lost in the hills and foot beds
of the mountains of Ukraine?
So you want to be an intelligence collector?
Well, you need to first make your girlfriend cry
almost every single night.
If you're lucky, we'll show you a man with no arm or legs -
only a pistol at his side,
a revolver with empty chambers
waiting to unload an empty sound in the empty air.
It'll be over shortly - I promise.
No more artificial light,
just the image of the back of your eyes.
The corners of your mind that has,
"Do not enter" written all across it.
Here, take these boots
you'll need them.
They once belonged to a soldier
but he won't be needing them anymore.
You're scared?
Why?
So you're afraid to be lonely?
Well one must confront Apollo before you try.
If you're lucky, you can be back before midnight.
A new year awaits you,
a different one!
What do you say?
She says your writing is weird?
Now, that's true admiration!
Well, it's closer to the whistling of firebombs
being dropped in the dawn of night.
They go floating down
so clumsily
so imperfectly
without any precision.
They float through the air
until they find the bedroom of an innocent child.
Then the real destruction begins.
To be burned alive in your sleep at night -
that is what war stands for.
Sheer chaos and control of your army.
Who has the most bodies?
100,000 men strong
or casualties gone wrong?
What if that bomb wrote a song?
Just one long whistle,
like the radiator on a cold winter night.
It just hums along
then suddenly it all goes wrong.
The crescendo ends with a burst of light
but it is quiet.
Suddenly a cloud forms
and all life is quickly unborn
and then we start again.
So you want to collect intelligence?
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