anglican thug life

I was raised by a pack of anglicans
who were constantly falling down
simply to get up again

and in that tumbling
a chorus
could be heard

I'm so sorry
I'm so sorry in my guilt
I never meant to hurt you

while all the while
we raped africa
and bombed dresden

and when ever I go into a church
my middle finger salute
rises up over my head

thine is the kingdom
and the power
and the glory

The young bruno bauer with his lady at loblaws

we're walking hand in hand
in sync, in step
smiling toothy grins
we seem to be floating
down the isles
past the pop and the beer
colours abound
functional food
packaged fish
frozen meet
sadly cellular automaton
will no longer do
two sets of chromosomes
walking hand in hand
no body could contain
the giddiness of us in awe
they say that joy can't be scientific
immanuel kant may disagree
but these feelings baby
seem to come from nowhere
it's probably the chemicals in our heads

Me you and our lies

we were walking on a another snowy night
and she said..
your lies are so big
you need a transit plan,
to simply get around them,  so I said

you're an coward in a bra
and you're becoming the poster girl of your mom
to uptight to enjoy life
and to lost in the joke
that is her "plans"

we walked past a church
where jesus saves
and jesus bent down
and whispered into my ear
"go ahead and kiss her, you don't know what your missing"

so I did and she said
you're not as clever as mark twain
but you're easy on the eyes
so give me another kiss
and tell me some more tall tales

well there was a corn field near trois-rivières
that used to sing in the rain
and now a box mall stands on the spot
and shits out carbon by the parts per million
crazy enough, its where I fell in love with you

Arthur Schopenhauer

I could sit here and nod
and look like I care
about what you're saying

can you sleep with that?

and if I fall at this point

will you still pick me up?

shall we dance in the living room again

maybe baby can we could walk danzig town

or head into berlin for the winter

but what's the point

throwing emotion

at something that's dead

I'm heading to the zoo

where universal compassion, even for the chimps

is the only guarantee of morality

and baby I lost all my morals

hanging out with you,

the girl without compassion

White Sugar

I know you're totally pissed when you cry
and somewhere in the back woods,
is a forgotten tree house

And once there was a desk
full of maps, pictures, your degrees and your plans
and now it's all in a storage locker somewhere in this town

I can see the alcohol in you hum
don't cry baby, 
there's still time


we'll find that treehouse and desk
your degrees and your plans
if it's the last thing we do

pop song

A clean snow fall.
As I walk across the parking lot towards my car,
the lone streetlight flickers off.

I make a wish.
I wish that this snow will never stop.
It buries everything deep.

And soon my footprints will disappear,
the only thing that remains
is a memory of where I've been.

I hit the light.
I turn left.
The radio chants another pop song.

You're just a memory my phantom friend
left behind with the tire tracks.
What's your name again?

the western front

driving at two am
with a bottle of rye in between my legs,
with another in reserve in the back seat,
without a mad mother in sight.

and with a granddaddy who watched his brother die at ypres,
and a daddy who bombed the rhine until it shone in the dark,
there's no king or empire with me tonight,
it's all cheap sentiment that ends in some poor bastards death.

all I have is a buzz that wishes that it would never end,
the apostle paul always travels with me,
as he does with those fleeing death in the suburbs of kabul,
from those who say they're there to liberate them

the western front is always around us and moving in