Every Time I Die lyrics
Album: Last Night in Town 
|Emergency Broadcast Syndrome|
reposition the phantom rigged in reflective tape.|
situated like a makeshift antenna, grinning like tinfoil.
we're losing reception. we can't pick up the game.
i should be discontinued.
i am a broadcasting embarrasment.
hiss like the damned.
decoding the transmitted pulse that dispatch from her lips.
i am not recieving a sign that says i am still here anymore.
do you hear me?
am i coming through at all?
is any of this making sense?
you've got a ghost on your hands.
a televisual image only partially clear.
scrambled phantom (i wish we'd all just stop talking at once).
spitting and cursing from the scrapheap we're on.
you should have lost your cool.
|Jimmy Tango's Method|
the amateur camera captures her motion perfectly.|
as the strangle knot that she wears on her wrists.
the trunk preserves the new scent of the princess skin.
disinfectant spit adding luster to chapped lips.
if she comes to, i'll tell her that she's beautiful.
all thses flies are gathered in admiration.
perhaps we should offer them a new wound.
i think you're right, this isn't really happening.
this isn't really happening.
can't get the smell out, can't get the mascara off the apolstry.
oh, this isn't really happening, this isn't really happening.
still everyone keeps laughing at me.
oh god, this is going to end badly.
if you don't wake up, i'll have to stop kissing you.
all that flailing has made you sleepy.
you rest while i untie you, wait here until they find you.
we've got some time before the reverie ends.
i've combed my hair, brought you your sunday dress.
tonight we'll magnetize the eyes of this whole town.
my hand made mannequin.
i won't let them get you.
they'll know you're mine by the fingerprints on your throat.
isn't she lovely?
isn't she wonderful?
like the whores that we are, swatting flies from the wounds we design.
this is not about fear.
paranoia is a disease of the unarmed.
this is beauty.
a sickening concern for the transcience of flesh.
we keep our screams behind the gag.
i keep my baby's breath in a Glad bag.
|Here's Lookin' at You|
staring at a ghost across a table set for two,|
this is the last call before the credits roll.
the charm of silver screen depression saturated in alcohol.
it's so seductive.
filtered through tobacco haze.
it's so fucking intoxicating,
the way they glimmer through the grain and make dysfunction such a fashion.
jimmy stewart suicidal sex appeal.
the alcoholic is the last true hopeless romantic.
stumbling and smelling of stale gasoline,
making james dean speeches to an empty room.
audrey left some lipstick on her cigarette in the ashtray
with a note scrawled on a napkin saying "this is glamour".
this is where hollywood cues the delusion
that everything looked this blue through sinatra's eyes.
what america needs is another worthwhile overdose.
celestial bodies constructed on set,
destined to explode in the headlines.
another dry martini and a methamphetmaine.
godspeed norma jean, i hope you saved us one last sleeping pill play it again
the tragedy of a track marked beauty queen.
the starlet in the magazine.
she looks all right to me.
she looks so good to me.
but there's somthing in the way she moves, like i want to.
make me want you.
tonight i feel like fame, dreary and estranged.
i'd scratch through glass not to be without you.
(without you) there's a whole lotta shakin' going on.
|Punch-Drunk Punk Rock Romance|
pressed the seven sequenced silver panic buttons,|
the distress calls that fall on a distracted short-wave signal.
a metronome timed to my panic stricken breathing
and a pulse conducted by our dying lines.
you said my heart sounded like a payphone in the rain.
distorted, distant, scrambled and desperate.
baby, i swear to god tonight i am sober.
it's the reception between us that's failing.
everything's coming out all frenzied and confused.
she's got what it takes to make collapsing a habit
and a dance out of a tantrum fit (it's tragic but i am sobering up).
pick up the phone.
tonight i feel like the hero of a rusting war.
my touch has the timing and precision of a car wreck.
no use translating the trembles.
they're symptoms of repetitive testing for fluctuation.
if i come back home, i am bringing back the bends.
so give me a kiss. let me taste the reptilian appeal.
say it again baby. does it turn you on? does it get you hot?
i get a little hysterical sometimes.
the panic you shouldn't have been so sentimental.
all that kicking and screaming.
everything i touch starts peeling.
we malfunction like machines.
get up off the floor and answer the phone.
i want to be a big star.
didn't want to touch so hard.
open the door.
i am your deviant satellite, an orbit defected by the ballast of words.
you're the reason for collisions.
i am face down like a sailor washed up under your window.
tonight is a shipwreck.
navigating through disorder.
now every electric star hums like a telecaster.
how punk rock is that?
you're so oblivious.
baby, you're my oblivion.
|Enter Without Knocking and Notify the Police.|
I have not said anything because I am sleeping.
|The Logic of Crocodiles|
i am a very important person.|
i've acquired a genetically altered handshake capable of speeds up to 30 mph.
hair arranged by the most advanced landscape surveillance operators our
company can afford.
i have a very expensive pen.
i use big words quite often in substitution for semantically equivalent words.
i attribute this success to my professional demeanor and my strong stock
though it may not appear so, i am quite comfortable in my surroundings.
i have everything, let me show you around.
smile you fucker, it's not often you get this chance.
love is just an exchangeof corporate documents.
i've reviewed your rapport and i feel you're a prospect for mechanical
this is a joint venture that will be mutually advantageous to both parties
technically this is just a business merger.
a consolidation of liquid assets.
we are respectively geared towards customer service.
there is a great possibility for corporate sponsorship if you're willing,
i am sure we could synchronize agendas.
swift, and efficient satisfaction.
through innovative planning,
we could form a strong strategic partnership capable of overcoming sensitive
and adverse predicaments which will be discussed at the next goals assessment
promotion possibility and additional benefits are diagrammed in my
preliminary objective outline.
raises are granted based on performance.
where the air hangs like the static of a dead end radio,|
i'm waiting with a frozen pulse.
crawl into an empty womb, don't raise these dead.
they've found their god in soil.
dry scab silhouette's tell the secrets of sewn mouths,
my heart is a sore but even charred faces crack smiles.
screaming like some faulty machinery.
the overwhelming inefficiency of infants.
artificer stead me now you've sewn a machine.
you've birthed an abortion.
the corpse of god is love.
i'm rotting, and i'm not yet dead.
i'm the king of worms and i'll have your head.
resurrected roadkill, blueprinted skin.
i swear i've never been here before.
everyone but me looks like they've seen a ghost.
all eyes fall on collapsing statues.
stop pointing. stop laughing.
there's nothing to see here.
everybody try to relax.
everybody please remain calm.
(i'm not supposed to be here anyway)
divinity doesn't show what the stables hold.
the scalpel proves my faith when he spits through his words.
we traitors share our strings.
we're suffocating under makeshift skin.
pull out the thread, sew on a heart, make peace with dirt.
|Nothing Dreadful Ever Happens|
forget everything i'm about to say.|
it's important you appear startled.
i didn't survive the crash.
this is nothing personal.
i just had to stop shaking.
i'm sorry, but i don't feel as if i'm in any shape to comfort you.
two sets of taillights burn dim and divide,|
stretch for miles making track marks across what veins fail to carry.
you should have taken my keys while my hands were shaking.
you could have kept the dead gone, entombed in the soil of arms.
raise the breathing abrasion with a turn of the key.
lost motor skills and a set cruise control.
mangled insect screams through the puddles of drool.
mainline the highway baby,
tie off the concrete veins and set the radio to fm
love songs clocked relapse defined by the rpm's of a static heart,
reanimated by the rush of eyes and horizon.
nothing warms like a road flare when caution sets.
anodyne seeps like dashed yellow lines through the withdrawn rearview addict.
drenched to the drawn teeth in seething foam.
if you want me dead, you should have called me home.
rumble strip as pulse prevents retreating eyes, dilate and close.
i can feel the dry heaves moisten, i can feel the blood withdraw.
you are my failed twelve step program.
a red light could kick this habit, a needle full of the junkies fuel.
drops of blood on her fingertips.
your arms are a deprivation chamber.
sterile to sixty in forever flat.
dissolve into the coast like john wayne.
a hero and his heroine.
|Shallow Water Blackout|
neuron flash in fifty watts pinpointing to the streetlight limbo.|
told me it was chemistry why i behave like this.
why i move in misdirected impulse and speak in scrambled clusters of white
traction is not a term of endearment.
death is an experiment best conducted face down.
vertigo may not include spinning, but it ought to.
i am languid in the puddle, face full of concrete cellophane.
don't say a single word unless you speak with a drowning tongue.
i am not listening. i am not focusing.
my eyes have sunk and set and i am invincible.
i'm water proof. someone said that heaven is just coincidental collision of
this is not the time for touching me.
i am a conduit changing colors, frantic humming televisions,
conducting city spasms, shorting voltage like a fuse.
the elevating vibrations of hysteria, amplified by the armor of the tarn.
flashing lights paint veins across the sky.
and everyone along the roadside just wants to see a saint.
the serenity of sirens, the allure of the femme fatale.
her defibrillator hands can't stop me now.
i feel quite all right.