by Jesse S. Mitchell
Today I believe in demons, my newest phenomenon and I am afraid of aluminum, it is made of poisonous gases. I tell you everything, I lost my back door keys, the cat is in heat and I may need new glasses.
Momentum…
Momentum…
Loud momentum…
I call you up on the telephone because I don’t like the look of being here all alone. It sounds like a Marlene Dietrich record over there, but I’ve been wrong before, like that time I thought I liked Gore Vidal. It’s too loud for ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties’ and I put a big hole in my floor. I think Biafra should have won that war, but you know that, you gave me the flag I have on my door.
Machines…
Machines…
Dangerous Machines…
It is the staring down the barrel of a gun, mouth of steel, bullet tongue, that makes me feel that the red devil is real. It’s all the want and the starving, that makes hands that grab all they can steal. It’s the shuffle and rough around the edges that make the little marks that we can’t explain. It’s the rainy days, that is all, that come from all these clouds. It’s all these thoughts thought out loud that make so much noise…and all these machines…and the little cracks in my voice.
Little songs…
Little songs…
Little songs I hear on the radio…
Today I believe in demons, my newest phenomenon and I am afraid of aluminum, it is made of poisonous gases. I tell you everything, I lost my back door keys, the cat is in heat and I may need new glasses.
Momentum…
Momentum…
Loud momentum…
I call you up on the telephone because I don’t like the look of being here all alone. It sounds like a Marlene Dietrich record over there, but I’ve been wrong before, like that time I thought I liked Gore Vidal. It’s too loud for ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties’ and I put a big hole in my floor. I think Biafra should have won that war, but you know that, you gave me the flag I have on my door.
Machines…
Machines…
Dangerous Machines…
It is the staring down the barrel of a gun, mouth of steel, bullet tongue, that makes me feel that the red devil is real. It’s all the want and the starving, that makes hands that grab all they can steal. It’s the shuffle and rough around the edges that make the little marks that we can’t explain. It’s the rainy days, that is all, that come from all these clouds. It’s all these thoughts thought out loud that make so much noise…and all these machines…and the little cracks in my voice.
Little songs…
Little songs…
Little songs I hear on the radio…
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