All Distortion, All the Time
Someone plug my lungs back into the guitar amps!
I want to live on
All distortion, all the time.
Aren't you sick of being appraised as just wholesale?
Aren't you sick of sailing on listing ships?
Aren't you weary from playing cellos with ex-lover's bones?
I want the butterfly brigade to grant me a year with no stomach drama.
I want a piano that will not warp outdoors when the rain demands slow dancing.
I want to skew the difference between Tai Chi and Chai tea,
and end up drinking a tall glass of your graceful force.
I want to lick my hands after I touch someone that has just become razzle dazzled by tomorrow's oncoming lightning.
I want birds to come close enough to hear them speak Aviation Spanish.
I want your record collection in my throat,
and my thumb in the electric ass of the all night jukebox.
I want my shoulder blades mounted in the museum of the most fantastic knives.
I want church in a bar. I want to pass out and hear you say Amen.
I want a skeleton night light in the closet.
I want your wow in my now so we become NWOW.
I want the light in your attic to shine down to where the sidewalk ends.
I want free shit to not cost anything. That'd be nice.
I want you to feel like a disco ball of fish hooks so you can hang on my words and I can spin in your small miracles of light.
I want my kitchen to be a Brazilian dance floor with a pot of your sweat in the oven and a fridge stocked with booty lust.
I want your silver muscles cut into a quilt. Let me sleep under your strength.
I want more pony lamps. No reason.
I want to smell everything.
I want to remember that the sky is so gorgeously large,
I feel stranded beneath it.
When I gasp beneath it,
I only want to gasp for more.