Из альбома: Ancient Mars
My alter-ego. He’s an escape artist,
he’s only truly happy when he’s under arrest.
oh how he handsome, scheduled to hang to death
He’s only truly happy at the precipice.
He’s like a mirror. He sticks into our ears
a stethoscope to the chest of the vacant years.
I can’t escape the chair, I’m etherized with fear
that my only talent is in hanging here.
but then it’s
Hey boy, I’ve got your man he’s right here
putty in my hands
ice cream and sweets,
coming in the sheets
he got no excuse to leave.
and in the real world, an intertidal cave,
I ride a desk chair waiting for a tidal wave
I feel like dancing, but that is miles away
I’m feeling hard and hollow like paper mache.
My alter ego. He’s in a jailer’s cage
he sits and waits for the devil to abet his escape.
I’m sorry pastor, I can’t be pasteurized.
All of the bibles in the world for a metal file.
At every clock strike, he hears the jailer’s keys
and the doubt starts to sprout til he’s on his knees.
but he is singing, when the night is black
“All I am is whatever I’m aiming at”
and he remembers like it’s his mother’s call
to feel his hand find a grip at the top of the wall.
and
I want to feel it, I want to feel the fire
of the leftover sun on the roofing tiles.