Everything Wrinkled

You go to Ellis Island to stare at the names
Collect your parachute from the police
You build a little fire, rest your eyes on the flames
Throw your dirty books into the heat

Running naked through
The stadium
With pride in your skin

My sister's got
A rosary
She dresses up in

My pocket's feeling heavy with the ink of my pen
So I better get this down

Shivering at the back door with your books and your fleas
Your Kerouac, your almanac, and your hot jazz beat
If you're feeling empty you should talk to your priest
Or get a little high

Don't try to speak in meter cos nobody does
Don't pretend you're a romantic; you just want to be fucked
I keep a little stutter; it's the only thing I trust
I refuse to be understood

My mother had
A surgery
It's a child, again

Good for your
Telepathy
Know where everything is

I need a new rebellion; this one's losing its edge
Tell me how to be bad

I don't believe in science or the afterlife
I won't bother with you, I like everything you like
You've been working in the garden, now you're reeking of thyme
Everything wrinkled


In the light