Decomposure - Safety Scissors Lyrics
Comfy pants (home alone confusing whitenoise with applause)neon dance (clomping hooves all in time, call and response)pumpkin smiles (if you don’t have money, well, then i don’t strip down)in packs or piles (the world is lost, they should include us now)It’s all water under the sugar bridge anyhowmadly tapdancing until the time runs outwhile spamalot selling protest signs to cowsgot my mojo maintaining regular business hoursand i don’t want to know where gravy comes outfrom the directorof the sequelof the sequelof the sequelof the sequelof the sequelof the sequelof the sequelof the sequelof the sequelof the sequelof the sequel to saw xit’s...Safety scissors - my truth is fatteningrhymes with izzle - student demonstration timepinkerton panther, phonevoice and matchingsince you’re paid for, it’s store credit, no refundhallelujah for a refreshing pepsihollow hands, blank books and waterwingschase the seagull, kill it and walk awayj. walter thompson, paint markers and camel legsit’s plainly different when you’re lit to cut teethand trade blue for the spoon in your gumsgo go goWe’re so connectedthrough ducts, never alone, silently followedwe’re so connectedhooded detainees filing into a planego go goYo blood money, it’s got to be the shoesdon’t hold your breath for a joint about sweatshopspoem words picked from drawers - grey, black, and whitelost when yawning feet climb in their socksdo you get mad or are you always quiet?i don’t think you know me very well.things must be said twice before they’re heardor like receipts they’re bleached and blotted out...and are meant only ‘til they’re said out loudHow do you sleep at night?(dot dot dot)Phantom gatherings and paths unfollowedpacked brittle and yellowing in boxesstains bursting across the floor,indoor snow settling down like tired kittensonearmed years buckled square under weightof undripping rain that will not evaporate,a steady eroding wash of accumulating entropyblue flame smokes, extinguished to stonedays flip by like a baseball cardin the spokes of a bike.tires.a lost fly in winter spinning meekly on its backrunning the air in prickly spasms like a dreamand falling silent.Anger wrapped in blanketsa padded knock of feeble fists balled pink and soft like sunday hamsliding faint down doors with weak whispersthen swung lazily from shoulder gallows in narrowing cursive osmirror cracked and distended, sallow pores swallowing warm fog,widemouthed and recalibrating.There is no fire,just a pale pleasant glow lighting swollen palmsgroping halfhope and heartall spun and um between words,a bare spidery sinus like a blindfold reaching back toward your earsas you walk until all you can do is walk,fumbling for a light switch,or a wall,then anything solid at all,waiting for shapes to undress from behind photocopied sceneryand muffled faces shocked white and abbreviatedall feeling sucking back behind your own gelatin skinuntil you stop.And sit.And your ghost continues on ahead,without thought to toe or topography or thought.this is the halflife, transformedswaddled in the vast blank chrysalisnourished by the lukewarm void and drying into the shella husk for new corn eyes,a clear container with the label scratched off,storage space for younger dreamsin its very own empty theatre
