What.
Constant for the Dirty Duo
i. The Culmination of Events
I am a bastard. You heard it right, folks. With my crab-clawed hands and alligator teeth, I'll jump you when your back is turned. I'll be the icicle that snaps and destroys your garden. Careful placement, porcelain, you had it coming. I caught you and you can’t go anywhere, now let me tell you how I got this way. We’d make good anti-christs or door-to-door salesmen of pretension. The poster children for the American Way, some call us prostitutes. Hey, it puts food on the table. And who are you to put down that which you’re next in queue for? Well damn, I know I should have taken precautions, but I weighed out my options and made up my mind. Who can blame me but the ones who name me: hypocrite, liar, cheater, cog. Why am I bastard? Because I can be. And every single one of you in your cast-iron uniforms and candy cane lives can pat yourself on the back now, or find a knife there later. Some call us prostitutes. You can call me friend.
ii. Final Testimony Of Doves
Radio sex, if it gets you off. A backstage bust of high degrees that got you on your knees. I used that line on every girl, stop thinking you’re “special.” Your superiority complex goes to waste. A one-night stand is all; a face that meant lust, not perfection. Stop being a brat and love me like I know you can. We were nothing more than a tour date, honey, you were nothing more than a fuck. Let’s coat the girl in fiberglass and watch her scratch until she bleeds. Let’s pour salt on her wounds and watch her slowly turn blue. Then we’ll wrap her in gauze and sell her on the black market… that’s a lot of coke, all for the comfort of wasted days. You mean nothing to me, I tied your heart with twine and gave it away.
iii. Have Her Home by Nine
I’m sorry. I don’t care if you believe. Now you’re crying, daddy’s princess in a flesh cocoon, aching from a center muscle. You couldn’t have possibly thought that my eyes held more than deception, could you? T minus fifteen minutes of fame. How did it feel to have the notoriety inside of you? Was it warm like you thought it would be, or cold like my intentions? Gullibility never had such a sweet feeling on the tip of my tongue. I’ve memorized the ceiling while you concentrate on my breathing. This won’t last, like half of the outlooks you had on me. Menacing and concise. Miserable and tarnished. You peel like the paint on the walls of this bus. I’m sorry that you thought that this meant anything at all.
This Empty Wire
My daily vigil at the telephone, no avail… what happened to you? I’ve been waiting for some kind of an answer, and you carry on. I’ve been ignored. Mistreated, discarded, call it what you like, it’s trite, it’s over, but I can’t move on. [Like wiping the butter right off of the bread, it’s sweetly insane and engraved in your head. Doesn’t it feel good to be idolized? I hope it feels better to just be dead.] Dead to me. Your image, a burden. My sacrifice, all wrong. Your song, heard too many times, and now a siren is laid to rest. Weary faces at the mourning ground, my search continues. But it’s hopeless, I cannot win, you can’t be found. Desecrate all the ones your hate, retreat from all the ones you loved. They got a chance, why not me? Why now? You took me with you. A boy lost his soul… I’ll turn again tonight. [This is everything I ever wanted you to know, everything I was afraid of up until now. I hope you can hear me, did the angels give you new eyes? Somehow I know you can see me sleeping with one open.] What’s the charge tonight? I’m only thinking negatively, though I’m positive I’ve lost you. Talk about not making sense, I’ve been blind this whole time by seeing right through death. Bloodshot is a gift and if I lose my head tomorrow, I never had it to begin with.
X Cigarettes and Beer X
Over the edge you set for yourself. Such a pretty girl, can she dance to save herself? And compose stories of some “new beginning” that finds torture in her dreams. Catering to false prophets, but the only outcome can be unhappiness, and speaking of which, when was she happy to begin with? You’ll be clean until the Deutche mark turns. It’s all about fashion, short and sweet. Your piece of the pie is stagnant with mold and disease. It’s sickness better later than now? If only you had learned to let go… but you’re on fire, tiger. Control is your amusement, and you’re returned the same favor. Sooner or later… “I slipped.” Well darling, I hope selling out will break your fall.
By the Skin Under My Fingernails
Put the kids to bed, we've got no time to waste. Pop the cork and pour a glass. This is a celebration of knives. The cook and the consumer, hand-to-hand with the valor of a thousand men. "We've got to keep it down," yawns a tired old man, "for if apprehended, we're nothing more than friends, once again." The nightly combat of inmates. Fifteen years is a short measure for what she brings... but will flowers and candy soothe her heart today? Burnt letters from far away and a hot meal aren't nearly enough to save the pain. She's forgotten all about him, he is nothing in her eyes. With the heads on stakes (which tie the room together so well), she can lean back in comfort, knowing that love is but an excuse to come home every day, so she might as well hit the bars. "Hit me again, bartender"... "I think you've had enough." Tell it to the court, I plan on killing myself tonight, and not even gap-toothed employers can stop me. If these pills keep me down, then don't save the king, and four eyes will spill tonight. Don't they know it's worth it in the end? It all pans out. If only cut, we'd be hysterical with the laughter of scenes we never knew; but dreams we wish we had, oh, they don't mean much. Flash a grin for the camera with this lovely ensemble... but who's this stranger? Has he taken the place? A new face added to the crowd monthly, and accepted with open arms. Another brick in the wall, per se. Good day, and to you I wish righteousness and the overall obedience of a rock. Criminals just don't work that way.