verticle oldness
tangles
tangle
(from iron chef, remember that? scott wrote so much better.
this is the only one i'ma keep)
i don't wanna rape
my daughter splay her wide here
but she just don't understand
why she's so fucked up. i remember the curse
of my mother.
i love you mom
i hope einstein was right and time can travel in two
directions. maybe she's hearing i love you mom
echo in a deja vu kind of way
as i stand there screaming at her
for getting me out of bed cos the school bus
is across the street, waiting for me. she leaned
out the door and asked
the bus driver to wait now i gotta rush not even brush
my hair my teeth and climb on the bus
where no one speaks to geeks
like me so fuck em,
let em wait.
the blue streak in her hair is not as blue
as her dead brown eyes she practiced faking
mean tuff fifteen for two months after the divorce.
you all know how it goes if you're not going
thru it now you hugged it like a pillow
to your empty heart sometime.
aaii-yup
last no moon was on the edge
hair pull knife slappin wrestlin knife she
got a knife as much as i hated my daddy and he beat
on me a lot i never pulled no knife. maybe i should
a beat on her, some.
i should get her yellow roses. i should get her daisies.
i've been thinkin how love died
in my heart for her daddy and how it was so easy
to tell him-- no more. finally after twentytwo
years he gave me roses for my birthday without
me having to ask. by then i wanted wild
flowers. she told him, too. after i told him
goodbye how he filled
the house with all the flowers he missed
surprised that i cried. surprised
i still couldn't stay.
i told him this: our love is like the bitter
oranges drying in the sand out back and you and i know
why. you may think you're reborn
and believe you can be- i have hopes you will be
but your face is carrying the karma of the man
you say is dead. and that man leeched me dry.
it's the little things that end up pissin you off the petty
inconsiderations so i hope next woman you
promise to put a handle on the door
you don't make her wait three years.
tangle
(from iron chef, remember that? scott wrote so much better.
this is the only one i'ma keep)
i don't wanna rape
my daughter splay her wide here
but she just don't understand
why she's so fucked up. i remember the curse
of my mother.
i love you mom
i hope einstein was right and time can travel in two
directions. maybe she's hearing i love you mom
echo in a deja vu kind of way
as i stand there screaming at her
for getting me out of bed cos the school bus
is across the street, waiting for me. she leaned
out the door and asked
the bus driver to wait now i gotta rush not even brush
my hair my teeth and climb on the bus
where no one speaks to geeks
like me so fuck em,
let em wait.
the blue streak in her hair is not as blue
as her dead brown eyes she practiced faking
mean tuff fifteen for two months after the divorce.
you all know how it goes if you're not going
thru it now you hugged it like a pillow
to your empty heart sometime.
aaii-yup
last no moon was on the edge
hair pull knife slappin wrestlin knife she
got a knife as much as i hated my daddy and he beat
on me a lot i never pulled no knife. maybe i should
a beat on her, some.
i should get her yellow roses. i should get her daisies.
i've been thinkin how love died
in my heart for her daddy and how it was so easy
to tell him-- no more. finally after twentytwo
years he gave me roses for my birthday without
me having to ask. by then i wanted wild
flowers. she told him, too. after i told him
goodbye how he filled
the house with all the flowers he missed
surprised that i cried. surprised
i still couldn't stay.
i told him this: our love is like the bitter
oranges drying in the sand out back and you and i know
why. you may think you're reborn
and believe you can be- i have hopes you will be
but your face is carrying the karma of the man
you say is dead. and that man leeched me dry.
it's the little things that end up pissin you off the petty
inconsiderations so i hope next woman you
promise to put a handle on the door
you don't make her wait three years.
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