20040405
My Personally Favorite piece i've written, it's amazing. and if you don't agree, fuck you.
'Church Pews are A Sanctity'
When out of liquor, I cried for my cancer, and nicotine somehow lacked.
So I head for the sinners, headfirst into winter, and follow their destructive path.
And as we drink up our poison, and stab at our lungs, there's nothing to do here but laugh.
We dim the lights so the shading's all the same, and we don't leave our love unmasked. But the meaning of the letters will forever remain lost deep in some other's past. And the whole world knows that we inevitably will be refused, no matter how incessantly we beg it to last. This ship that we boarded was sure to sink us from the start. The locks were broken. Torpedo's been seen heading from heart to heart. And on the final day, the ship's carcass will rise, and be carried away on the crest of the tides. And you see her kneeling in the pew that resides just across the aisle from you, in the mass you're so reluctant to attend. But her eyes, they stain; stitch their place into your head. They keep you numb in this hall, this barren hole of tales turned into lies, told and retold, after just 2000 years of warping in the cold. And an age's translation may factor much worse than you could ever know.
And I met a girl who spoke nothing but Bible quotes. I looked her straight in the face and said to her, "you're something quite unusual." She had nothing left to say. But her green eyes replied, sparkling bright; their pompous gaze glaring off my dinner plate. The greenery shined on my spoon, fork, and knife, and landed upon my face, where my own eyes resigned, conjuring up the warmth in this cool-aired space. And just as dinner was winding down, the sinners began making their way into town. I tried my conscious clear down to the core, and after I battled, I found myself sworn to never follow their tired, bloodstained trail. Thus, my makers were struck down by awe, when they saw me reversing the plot of this tale. By now, they knew their planned destiny had surely failed. But then, I forced myself to ask, "Am I really the sculptor of this cold sheet of ice, sleek plane of whites, that we all know now to be my life?" well, join the crowd, watch me thaw away.
And it was the next week when I resaw her, with her forehead blessed by the Father, his Son, and their Ghost. Given a poison, she was yet to know. Her high cheekbones kept her smiling, but her eyes took quite a dulling. Joy, when skewed, turned into a shear glare. Eyes pierced like needles through shards of hanging hair. Her spirit, once high, sails no more. I catch a glimpse of it falling to below these marble floors. Upon crash-landing, with ashes, she was buried, in a grave of the most evil things. A hope of redemption: she opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out to receive the holiest Host. It was as though it took over, made her soul become older; stealing away her youth. And it constructed a cover, a catalyst upon each eye; a shield for the willing, a solid brick of lies; just something to black out the truth.
Well, I turn my body around, shift my sight to the ground in a fit of disgrace. And begin winding my mind away from this place. I'm walking back to the car. I don't know where I am, but I know exactly where she is at. The lines on the palm of my hand recite a poem, saying to me that I'm just as far away from all those books we once read, the thoughts that filled our teenage heads, and all the words youth could make us say. And now, I trudge blindly through this sin, just to find my body lying within a fashionably manufactured coffin; swelling with death, nothing but black in my head, and a barely whispered spiritual-concept: you can earn what you wish, give all you may give; you can wear your women like your sports-coats, or hide those hungover eyes behind all your prayer-books, and live out other ideals such as that. But, at the end of the line, there's just one sureness you'll find: this death is all you will get.
When out of liquor, I cried for my cancer, and nicotine somehow lacked.
So I head for the sinners, headfirst into winter, and follow their destructive path.
And as we drink up our poison and stab at our lungs, there's nothing to do here but laugh.
'Church Pews are A Sanctity'
When out of liquor, I cried for my cancer, and nicotine somehow lacked.
So I head for the sinners, headfirst into winter, and follow their destructive path.
And as we drink up our poison, and stab at our lungs, there's nothing to do here but laugh.
We dim the lights so the shading's all the same, and we don't leave our love unmasked. But the meaning of the letters will forever remain lost deep in some other's past. And the whole world knows that we inevitably will be refused, no matter how incessantly we beg it to last. This ship that we boarded was sure to sink us from the start. The locks were broken. Torpedo's been seen heading from heart to heart. And on the final day, the ship's carcass will rise, and be carried away on the crest of the tides. And you see her kneeling in the pew that resides just across the aisle from you, in the mass you're so reluctant to attend. But her eyes, they stain; stitch their place into your head. They keep you numb in this hall, this barren hole of tales turned into lies, told and retold, after just 2000 years of warping in the cold. And an age's translation may factor much worse than you could ever know.
And I met a girl who spoke nothing but Bible quotes. I looked her straight in the face and said to her, "you're something quite unusual." She had nothing left to say. But her green eyes replied, sparkling bright; their pompous gaze glaring off my dinner plate. The greenery shined on my spoon, fork, and knife, and landed upon my face, where my own eyes resigned, conjuring up the warmth in this cool-aired space. And just as dinner was winding down, the sinners began making their way into town. I tried my conscious clear down to the core, and after I battled, I found myself sworn to never follow their tired, bloodstained trail. Thus, my makers were struck down by awe, when they saw me reversing the plot of this tale. By now, they knew their planned destiny had surely failed. But then, I forced myself to ask, "Am I really the sculptor of this cold sheet of ice, sleek plane of whites, that we all know now to be my life?" well, join the crowd, watch me thaw away.
And it was the next week when I resaw her, with her forehead blessed by the Father, his Son, and their Ghost. Given a poison, she was yet to know. Her high cheekbones kept her smiling, but her eyes took quite a dulling. Joy, when skewed, turned into a shear glare. Eyes pierced like needles through shards of hanging hair. Her spirit, once high, sails no more. I catch a glimpse of it falling to below these marble floors. Upon crash-landing, with ashes, she was buried, in a grave of the most evil things. A hope of redemption: she opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out to receive the holiest Host. It was as though it took over, made her soul become older; stealing away her youth. And it constructed a cover, a catalyst upon each eye; a shield for the willing, a solid brick of lies; just something to black out the truth.
Well, I turn my body around, shift my sight to the ground in a fit of disgrace. And begin winding my mind away from this place. I'm walking back to the car. I don't know where I am, but I know exactly where she is at. The lines on the palm of my hand recite a poem, saying to me that I'm just as far away from all those books we once read, the thoughts that filled our teenage heads, and all the words youth could make us say. And now, I trudge blindly through this sin, just to find my body lying within a fashionably manufactured coffin; swelling with death, nothing but black in my head, and a barely whispered spiritual-concept: you can earn what you wish, give all you may give; you can wear your women like your sports-coats, or hide those hungover eyes behind all your prayer-books, and live out other ideals such as that. But, at the end of the line, there's just one sureness you'll find: this death is all you will get.
When out of liquor, I cried for my cancer, and nicotine somehow lacked.
So I head for the sinners, headfirst into winter, and follow their destructive path.
And as we drink up our poison and stab at our lungs, there's nothing to do here but laugh.
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