Mindreader

Somebody is laying down tries out back of the arcade Your weight or a big door prize – fifteen minutes with the mermai And the guy with the hat got another operation, but he still looks the same Not too bad when you see it in the mirror, not too good for the restrained I wish I could read minds, but I cannot 10-4 on the lady in the washroom, this was not her idea Throw down with the cartoon hairdo, put out with the big round feet I wish I could read minds, But I cannot see through concrete walls Stand screaming for more applause Hang from rafters for no cause but my own

Talk Me Down

Tell me why there’s apparently nothing to see The undone is a medicine to me Considering the way that I can levitate To be a prisoner of everything you feel Can work miracles on long dead ears If what you write resembles what you want to hear Will you talk me down? I can’t climb and cry at one time The mass appeal doesn’t make it any less true C’est difficile and I can’t help you Any more than I could ever levitate

Parade

I don’t know how I got here. This uniform is strange The gutters and the streamers should make a nice parade Ain’t it such a shame we ain’t got the wings to fly away? And now my arms have rusted into an old pitchfork salute To turn away the cheerful in answer to my age The sun doesn’t bend on the sidewalk to keep itself from hitting you Who knew the General in his prime was walking with a clubbed foot? Let the party-goers slide; they are more or less alive They can feel it in their joints, never fails to disappoint

Tyrone

Mouth folded down in the corners How did we end up in this cold, cold heaven? You cannot sleep, don’t I know it Ask all around for something better Isn’t my life sad enough for you to divide into the things I’m dreaming of, to make the time go by? Tyrone is a very nice name My home is never gonna be the same Why ain’t my legs long enough? Why ain’t my sunny days insured? Now, ten years old in the corner We found a wall and we wrote our names Weeds in the ground do no better Hand me your hand feels like mine

Huffer

Which one, who will be the first to breathe in the fumes of the model airplane glue? My words land in a beautiful web, melt down slow to the bottom of the bag Never gonna reach the top of the trees Never gonna shoot a gun at me Never gonna see the way I see Visions appear nearer than life will allow, pinned down bugs in a chemistry display Sky high, nobody ever returns to breathe in the fumes of the model airplane glue The colors to be found Blue-green on my fingertips, bright red around my lips Ain’t this life just fabulous? Who’s to say it’s not? He became the color of the cap He was mouthing off, insisting the walls were barbeque Who’s to say they’re not?

Sin Of Pride

Wrap a telephone cord around your arm Take pride in the way you picked up the place The wait by the window won’t be long As far as I can figure it you tripped over your own shoelaces And Wally is out of touch Keeps seeing himself in autographed pictures of Abraham Lincoln And women’s lingerie Funny when you catch it right, the glow of the sun on the skin of his red face Find out who is on your side I like feeling the sin of pride Like a book opened up to a reader, like an ear opened wide I hear you

UFO

All the reflections off the gold stickers, they fit in well with the times I found a brother in the smell of liquor, and so we suffer for our crimes Asteroids were there, our tongues they were tied up, but none of us was scared And oh, how much was said, but not a word was spoken, the silence was intangible

Lanacane

If you want a mystery, I got a feeling you can sound it out Pick it up where you left it off, you won’t lose it to the likes of me I want to see the back of you, in the mirror there are two of us When the feeling comes again, I am surprised it doesn’t come to you Lanocane, lanocane, is this what it feels like? Lanocane, lanocane, are my feet still dancing? Sleeping in the air vent, keeping down the noise of this giant thing Never wanted infamy, never wanted anything. Lanocane, lanocane, is this what it feels like? Lanocane, lanocane, are my feet still dancing to the giant whirl of organs To the toast that I was pouring, to the telling of the story?

Orthodox

There it is again Jumps of the printed page again Turns a man into a pillow Turns a man into a pillow… Pay me now for leaving early Plumes of broadcast blue rise behind me It don’t seem a great reward To be lonely and ignored in New York Orthodox is from the Greek for customary held belief I know what I like, I know what I don’t Mention me to your next date; I’ll give you half of what I make It goes to the good of the all alone Diaphanous veins of plastic wander and curl Your skin is as clear as glass is, Anatomy Girl…