Swordplay: Alright. I talk a lot. I talk a lot. I talk a lot. People, they talk about the recession. Now they’re talking about retirement. I talk about who’s working and who’s breaking a sweat. I had my head full of wonderful things but they’re all gone now. To where, I don’t know. But I know they’ll be found. I'm sorry for always apologizing for things I did not do, events I could not control and things I did not say. Pride is a mother fucker and I've got a civilized mind, a pocket full of pennies nickels and dimes. I drink to mankind alone while someone a little less lucky than myself talks to God from a pay phone. It's okay. Ask him how much money I owe. He won’t know. He threw away my Medicaid application and then he kept on going. This is a medicated nation and I capitulate when I see my paycheck. Lose my concentration but I keep going. Because I am a machine. A machine has purpose. I am poetic motion in the ocean while an ice berg shoulder to shoulder with the suits and the hors-d’oeuvres, prostitutes with their slurs go "bourbon and whiskey never mattered this much to the South.” I interrupt when I open up my mouth. I got a family tree with dotted lines I can cut out with scissors. And if this is the land of the free beyond a reasonable doubt, I say we take missiles, fill em with nuclear waste, attach em to satellites and then shoot them at the sun or at these limousines that are rolling down these country roads. I've been running around for days in a place I do not know with friends that I just met on runaway trains you cannot catch. For all that, I've got nothing to show. We are off the rails, hands tied to the trestles, wrestling with the tracks. And I swore that I was never going back to that land with that captain with that castle with that princess there holding my map.

I had my head full...

Brzowski: I'm not sorry enough. I push against the sunrise. Chimney full of rotgut, punish self throughout first large percentage of the day. Year in and year out I learn to live with "the peddle, the thawing", and toothpicks prying open lidded eyes. The mornings hurt and my body screams from every sinew as I push it past limitations. Eventually the brain begins dissolution "hinted" expected and formally medicated. "This happens to the best of us" I'm reassured by those far from this place and keep the majority of abuse a secret to save face, check the grill for bugs before motivation to streetside. Sunglasses is a must, I talk shit and shovel it in bucketfuls against the tide. I stress for dimes and throwing copper like it's gonna hit the world market and if you see it fly I would advise you to try and dodge it. I've attempted to remove the angelic likeness from soapstone and marble. Reductive process never touted to be a strong suit. Manifested my last long-term megalith in a moving vehicle scripted in motion, now an attempt to control my surroundings. I've got Paxil to prove a percentage of that. No gods, No masters, only a procession of brats, Yankee bred, Illustrated my bi-daily yawn-fest. Talk quick with my soul mirrors shifting side-to-sly, Pale Rider equivalent of a fistful of plasticine dust. I bet I can pickpocket the picket line astride. Spent half my naturalized time allotted on this spun rock dubbed Pangaea. Cuz troglodyte customs abound, presently the stench of wine coolers. I was raised Protestant so I latently believe cancer is a Catholicized invention. I'm sorry occifer, I was just ripping phantasmagoric lines with the ghost of William S. Burroughs. I'll buy some vowels like "O" (oh) and "Y" (why) The Real American Next Top No Deal Live from the 1st World's bottom half billion. I've been migrained for a decade plus and it barely even bothers me, barley barely sedates me. Walking on the balls of my feet out of anxiety, walking on the balls of the fraudulent dogs roaming and picking over the droppings of evidence for homework, and overdue letters of resignation.