Guitarmy
Do you remember us? Do you remember us?
We wrapped your corvette in cellophane, set it aflame!
Do you remember us? Do you remember us?
We doused your TV set in propane, turned up the gain!
This party's dying so guitar-me!
Raise the glass to the guitarmy!

Fucking's Greatest Hits
Ring out the gong again! Carve out this hymm in skin! When the party blacks out again you're still eating headlines out of the newspaper bin. Slap the gong again! Carve out this hymn in skin!

Happy Birthday gelatins smearing bruises on your chin. There's cake but no mouth, conch but no sound, glossy skeletons, boyfriends but no friends. And that birthday greeting on your face reads one more year of smiles faked.

Ring out the gong again! Carve out this hymn in skin! When they've pissed between every sheet of your father's bed those tears have barcodes waiting to be scanned. And when they've hurled every gutted couch cushion from the living room into your father's swimming pool, you're bobbing chlorine apples in the brother bucket of envy's gruel.

Happy Birthday gelatins smearing bruises on your chin. There's cake but no mouth, conch but no sound, glossy skeletons, boyfriends but no friends. And that birthday greeting on your face reads one more year of smiles faked.

Ring! Ring! Ring out the gong! So now you've made it to the top of their list. Congratulations your fucking's greatest hit!

Behind husks of leather, photo albums shield their laughter. You thought they'd make you breakfast the morning after? Your fantasy
season gangrened off the calendar.

Burn, Piano Island, Burn
Bulimic rainbows vomit what? Burn, Piano Island, Burn! Coconut pupils never shut? Burn, Piano Island, Burn! Jigsaw babies and their bamboo stilts? Burn, Piano Island, Burn! Charred toucans weaving their black sky quilt? Burn, Piano Island, Burn! The sea shells scream out celestial code. Melting on the shore inside a flame snow globe. Burn Burn So burn Piano island! Torch the treasure! Torch the shovels! Torch these hands dipped in gold lacquer. Torch the finger-prints painting a violence portrait on spinal wings. I buried my bride of eight inch fingers neck deep in the hungry quicksand. I buried our child of pineapple skin where the generic sunsets sparkle so bland. I split my grandmother like a rotten papaya... our fright to pollinate the flowers of fire. I vomited my skeleton and donated it to the war mausoleum... I cut my will and testament along the scar tissue seam. I packaged my heart and fed-ex'd it to the octopus queen. Burn, Piano Island, Burn! Soured Palm trees sputter waxy wax stink. Burn, Piano Island, Burn! Boiling lagoons chewing bubble gum pink? Burn, Piano Island, Burn! The vicoden volcano spews and salivates? It's belly bloated like a pre-teen pregnancy? I fed its limp indifferent walls tales of an ark haunted with the five howls. I tied a nervous noose of piano wire and wrapped it around the mocking throat of the past. Its head erupted like a rabid roman candle as I kicked the stump from underneath. Burn Piano Island Burn and drown all your fucking riddles down the throat of the sea. This one-man raft won't be coming back so don't talk out of tune to me.
From a distance, the fornication of fear and flames twinkles so pretty.

Because you can't put the life back into this hospital ward

Ambulance Vs. Ambulance
Ambulance X extracts several consultants from the slow gumming death at the office orifice. Ambulance Y imprisons the sigh of the recent amputee and dumps her in the xylophone trees. Ambulance X scours the tanning complex for repunzels rotting in their skin cooking coffins. Ambulance Y drops the body at the door step. Ambulance X pulls you out of the party and rubs your freckles like a DJ to his records but Ambulance Y teaches you the word goodbye and cuts off your hands to show you where you stand under the monolith of what is love and what is scam, what is sun and what is tan. The Ambulance Angels pull up to your doorstep the sirens flash emergency, "you'd better come quick." The Ambulance Angels chisel a crack in your mouth, and then they paint a landscape with your regret and shouts. Roll tape and decode the moans, ventilate the scandal from these locked up mouth holes. You'll never see your wife and children again so tell us what was going through your head when you looked into their eyes and said "no thanks I'll take the hooker instead" You'll never see that office again so when the nurse amputates both of your thighs come a little bit closer to the mic and tell us what you miss more, your desk or the hungry sky. The Ambulance Angels pull up to the graveyard, and leave you there bubbling broken sonnets and shards. The Ambulance Angels notify your next of kin and show them the scrap book of your operation: "His head was a faucet leaking love, laughter and lies: all his secret wishes, all his world famous sighs. Before you remember, before you give in, just remember we're coming back for your children.

USA Nails
Fingers: 1-900-USA-Nails

Prisoner: Operator, I love you. Operator, I would never leave you.. Operator, I love to see your face pressed up against the glass. I need to hear the way your tongue tastes in my ear...

Operator: Put the reciever to your chest


Prisoner: The county sheriff said that my baby is dead. They found him in some trash can blue all clenched and chewed. Don't judge me, I'm not his real mother. I couldn't even recognize his face, his tears of wax, his skin like a subway running over spinal tracks. Operator, can I confide you? They haven't got an ounce of proof! Those pigs locked me up here to see what color I'd rot into! (it wasn't me it was my false tiger limbs.. It wasn't me it was the garbage gryphon!)

When I walk, I walk alone (operator, come on!), when I watch you through the phone, Operator, come on and de-pupil these eyes, love scenes grafted to the sky are making me cry

1-900-USA-NAILS, I get one phone call a day

1-900-USA-NAILS, 98 cents per minute

Prisoner: Operator-rator, won't you tell me again! Operator-rator yeah you're my only friend!

Operator: Do you remember that night in the back of daddy's car... strumming the chords of your pubic guitar...the way you tasted like a movie star...the way the windshield reflected the sunrise, the way the light tattooed your thighs...You're the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world... ..our time is up. Until next time, I'll send you the bill.

Prisoner: Listen... can you hear the buildings crumbling in slow motion? Blow me up like a balloon we'll float over the ocean! Listen... can you hear them taking me away, don't tell the fucking guards what I've said. Can you see the angels stringing wires through my face?... Meet me next week, same time, same place!

Cecilia and the Silhouette Saloon
Murder = White Out. Cancer = Birth Blouse. Mirror = Perfect Glass Spouse. Oil = Sex Paint. Shower = Water Saint. Death decodes the howls from our hands. Skull = Noise Nest. TV = Fuck Test. Mirror = Siamese Gun Kiss. Sugar = Birth Bait. Murder = Loves Fate. Death distills the camouflage from our dance. Death inverts the red from romance. Death x-rays the angels of chance. Death: the anti mirror of infants. Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.

When Cecilia's grave cracked like a dirt cocoon she pulled up a stool at the silhouette saloon. The player piano mumbling crippled jigs. Black widows knitting victimless wigs. When Cecilia's throat slit like a second set of lips she drooled braille bibles onto the brothel bed spread. Like an egg whose yoke defies child bearing hips. Like a ghost who fears all of the deceased and dead. (Time eats the flesh and spits out the shadow like a useless wishbone.) But that locket spinning around her neck, whose hearth heats a dead valentine, you know the phantom trail leads way to a muted grave. Where is his voice now? A dead tone in the flutter of drunken wings. Where is his blushed cheek now = A face unraveled in shadow, veiled in blind laughter. Where are those sex ripened lips = His kiss print still warm on several necks.

Where is love now?

Murder = White Out. Cancer = Birth Blouse. Mirror = Perfect Glass Spouse. Oil = Sex Paint. Shower = Water Saint. Death decodes the howls from our hands. Skull = Noise Nest. TV = Fuck Test. Mirror = Siamese Gun Kiss. Sugar = Birth Bait. Murder = Loves Fate. Death distills the camouflage from our dance. Death inverts the red from romance. Death x-rays the angels of chance. Death: the anti mirror of infants. Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.

Six Nightmares at the Pinball Masquerade
When the french maids cigarette burns like a boiling tapeworm (that was really something baby, that was really something baby) When the chandeliers shatter, your guest's gowns turn to tatters, the portraits just chatter (that was really something baby, that was really something baby) Can you feel your sweat beading porcelain? Your skeleton outgrowing it's skin? It's the pinball masquerade... Oh Oh Oh I saw the curtains of hair Oh Oh Oh I saw my fingers tear.

Oh Oh Oh I saw the face of a girl strapped to a poison pear she said:

"we are the six nightmares (oh yeah!) we are the six nightmares (oh yeah)

I saw a millionaire eat his shadow



I want to see your fears materializing !

The Salesman, Denver Max
Through the screen door your thoughts are quarantined, by the way you smell I can tell that you're fifteen. My name is Denver Max, I eat heart attacks. From your mouth to your hands to the floor you're bubbling syntax. What the crickets see is between you and me. What scarecrows think, would turn your eyeballs pink. Don't you try to call the cops little girl, before you pick up the phone you'll be dead. Don't you try to call the cops little girl, your tongue is withered it's heavier than lead. Won't you just step into the car little girl, your parents don't understand what's in your head. We're really onto something special little girl, you're blushing red, your head can't hide those thoughts of dread. Through the screen door kiss me like a queen... It tastes like metal in my mouth like rusty Listerine. My name is Denver Max please excuse the mask Yeah, running down my face, bound by tacks and paste. What the crickets see is between you and me... What the scarecrows think would turn your eyeballs pink...with a face like that you're never ever gonna make it big. You'll never find a boyfriend unless you get it adjusted...My name is Denver Max and won't you come sit on my lap because the only thing you own is everything you lack. Don't you try to call the cops little girl, before you pick up the phone you'll be dead. Don't you try to call the cops little girl, your tongue is withered it's heavier than lead. Won't you just step into the car little girl,your parents don't understand what's in your head. We're really onto something special little girl, you're blushing red, your head can't hide those thoughts of dread. By the time we hit Tucson your parents, little girl, will be wondering where their pretty little blonde has gone. By the time we hit Mexico you'll know little girl that Denver Max will always be the only one. By the time we hit the ocean we'll jump, little girl, down to find the undersea sun.

God Bless You, Blood Thirsty Zeppelins
Bullhorn: "Save the falsetto valentines for the black ice cube toast, for the filth roast."

Classified: You know she looks so Clinique, but when you think she's asleep, we're watching from inside the pilot's seat. Because unfortunately this Marylin Monroe is a secret Zeppelin whose sweat rains down napalm confetti on all black tie celebrations

Bullhorn: Tear out your carnivorous toupee for the afro fire, save your hors d'oeuvres for the boiling lobster choir

Classified: You know she looks so vulnerable in that snakeskin shawl, but we're watching through her cut out eye holes. (Because unfortunately this Marylin Monroe is a secret Zeppelin known towing a sign across the Coca-Cola sky that reads the S.S. Penetration)

God Bless you Bloodthirsty Zeppelins!

Technique: And now we're flying over the past and future butchered from out brains and left to rot. And now we're flying over the television towers plastering the air with the filthy film of prayer. We don't need a blueprint, we don't need a blue print to burn our manuscripts naked and new. We don't need a blueprint, we don't need a blue print, the blue prints me, the blue prints you

Classified: We'll build our engines from hyjacked hymans. Propellers churning in whispered fury. We'll pluck our bombs from the greased pouch of your presidents propaganda pupa louse.

Message received: "Honey I'll be home late, from the office today, up to my neck in paperwork, yeah my boss is such a jerk."

Telephone wire: "Oh, yeah she bought the story and there's a motel nearby... so show me your surrender face baby"

Bullhorn: Unfortunately this Marylin Monroe is a secret Zeppelin set on a crash course with your cumshot museum with the blowjob bunny mansion

Technique: And now we're flying over factories manufacturing authentic memories. And now we're flying over the swamp that brews the biggest smiles, cackling teeth in piles. And now we're flying over the globe derobed all the houses x-rayed all our thoughts exposed. And all the copyrighted memories in my head spill to the ground in a puddle of hungry lead. And as the traffic weaves human tapestries we sing a chord to the frustration symphony. Unfortunately this Marylin...

Busy Intersection: Oh my God, the bombs, the bombs are falling!

The Shame
My heart is a black haunted loom weaving jackets for children who'll never be born. My hands are abandoned factories manufacturing heartbreak and hate for the world. As we waltz the broken dance of our limbs this ballroom has been groped by so many evil whims. As I drill the last hole into you, the well of your body has hardened into some glue. Everything is gonna be just awful when we're around. All the colors gonna rot off your sight when we're around. I remember the day that I sold my smile to that nice couple who lost their first child. I threw in a set of sympathy and a bucket of popcorn for the cemetery. But now my face is all fenced off, the sky is boarded up, the hills covered in drop cloth. How many chords till this song vomits out real love? How many feathers to pluck naked the soiled dove? How many whores till you send away for that trophy? And how many punches till you give yourself away for free? Because those bruises on your face look like the sun setting in disgrace. (From these cliffs you can see the whole city laid out groveling like a field of wounded soldiers. The billboards in heat and hissing, the sky scrapers stitching the gash of the earth. As they waltz the broken dance of their limbs their ballroom has been groped by so many evil whims.)

Everything is gonna be just awful when we're around. All the colors gonna rot off your sight when we're around. I am just a salesman, pleased to meet you, can I show you around? Everything must go the shadows, the seagulls, when we're around.

(This is our shame.)

Counted, measured, copied, faxed

What's cooking in your stain? The sleepy clang of
What's cooking our sun? The addictive hum of bubble gum slums. Come on taxman! This withered milk tree that you call love collapses like an empty glove... Feed it! Suck it! Own it! Fuck it!
And we know that sewing on another asshole wont make us shit more, but who can resist a two-for-one at the pink tarantula store? When you wake up in the morning the rising sun shines through its frosted veil. We'll always lay together dreaming of other people under the poison hail.


And we know that TV fed us our first footsteps, but the Ketamine

We are the cross-eyed children misled to yellow in tarantula webs. We are the gawk-eyed children chained to rot in the designer fuck beds.