Out In The Street, They Call It Murder

There are some boo-boos that Neosporin can't heal, like the blisters on my feet from walking around in platform wedges with 25 pounds on my back measuring all those places so I can collect all those the checks to put into the account that pays the satellite that delivers you: strip ping pong. I cry, I cry and I don't know why but don't worry, your acts of contrition aren't lost on me, I appreciate them, and they keep me going, like a complex carbohydrate. And I just want to find a corner or a quieter room, where our conversations don't compete for space with the endless medias and where we can really be alone with the awful sweetness of our escaping sweat. Yes, good luck (with that) and about as likely as dodging a nic from the poisoned dagger of time. So I'll raise my glass to ESP, to the second hand and its accuracy, and to the actual size of everything. Now the world's got me dizzy again and I bathe and I breathe, "Baby, come here, don't go away," but his sirens call and argue "walk this way, no walk that way." Now I've grown tired of holding this pose, so I'll remember to just be grateful for this day, like a good evangelical or whatever. And I'll just get over the things that so violate me that way we don't have to fight about them because it really isn't hard for me and fighting really is. Besides, I have yet to get any genuine happiness from a treasure dug up with a coercive shovel.