The Secret Death Ritual Of The Cherry Pepsi Supernova

pop. clink. i've got to think

that the rhapsodies are out of sync,

that the rabbit's eyes are a bit too pink,

and the cracks in the walls are eavesdropping--

waiting, patient, for the fall.

our eastwind grasses are crackling

our thermostat temples are crumbling

and to make things worse,

like a damn cutpurse

determined to cement our curse,

our straight incomprehensibly pretend

fuckcounterfeit figmental radio friends

have fled, in anticipation of the end

from we who made them first.

my ears have got that particular ring

that screams our bones into breakable,

speaks our words into corners corruptible,

that whispers our doom inevitable,

inevitable,

inevitable.

but there's still a plink plink in the kitchen sink,

there's still life to be lived in the spiderstrings,

and the wind stings hard like a pelicanwing-

flies us higher than it all.

so gimme a wink and let's have a drink,

a drink

to canon desecrating

to dogmatism depreciating

to etiquette abominating

to life accelerating

to love re-re-recreating

to truth and beauty waiting

for us,

but not in the wings,

fucking christ, who makes things like that wait in the wings?

so let's sing, let's have a drink

to circumstance

to unrepentence

to ruthless, undulating chance

to our entangled disaster-dance

to passionate irreverance.

to the letters that keep us coming back for more.

and now i'm running out of ink

so let us leap before we think,

let us feel before we know,

and let us speak before we breathe,

because there's not much time

til our stars align

and our windmill wings resign

themselves to the deathly, ticking seconds

that make us matter hardly, if at all.