She’s below an intellectual meniscus
If the reference is good but the lighting’s not right she’ll miss it
In her worldliness she’s skilled in towing imaginary lines
Although manic and depressed don’t seem to be much less than intertwined.
I’m a door mat and an addict, unconditionally pacing frantic
Burning a patch on his lungs and hole in the rug to see you.
This dissociative response of which I’m leaning on at any given time
Keeps me up in the rafters while she’s runnin’ the scenes with a friend of mine.
We’re getting deep at awkward intervals
Exchange these lofty syllables
This play’s run long, your tongue’s worn thin
I’m starting to get anxious at the thought—
It’s so predictable,
We rise up like dirigibles
And crash into the rocky shores of God knows where this conversation ends
Condescending to consider me,
Dear Lord I think I’d rather be dead
Than a hearse in this procession
But such is this joke that’s overrun with hints
That this eternal consciousness
Indeed wants nothing more than to inhabit something greater than
As you’re running through your typical cycles—
Seems you’ve anointed yourself
and now you’re making your rounds
As some tragic, stoned disciple.
And no one’s taking the hint
but they’re all making their calls
And though you feel to move you get nowhere at all
Looks like you’ve stranded yourself because
you warrant the help to spite you.
My dear friend, I think you should be warned
This new-aged verbal hippie porn
Is kind of hittin’ a wall—
That green drink will not save you from despair.
I know, inflammatory
This claim towards false reality;
Your bikram coach instructed you to do these twice a day until you’re dead.
"Can’t we all just sit here comfortably
And conversate more topically
Instead of be held under hostage
By your misanthropic qualities,
These existential maladies—"
Can’t we please just throw out one more term?
I think we’ll hit that nail right on the head