Dirty Veins Pulsing

When you close your eyes your see snow flakes and white mice
And you promise to yourself that your going to win back your mind
After you lost it in a card game on a bad hand at a square table
And the amber piss is warmer than the air that you breathe
But the fog that lifts up around you and everyone else
Smells the same and is as warm as the applause that comes to you from the orchestration pit
The garden would grow if it wanted to, but all it wants is to scream into the wind
The ridge is green, the stump is grey, the road has gone so you make your own
Every little trip you've taken you've taken a story of an artists life to read along the way
But you have never told your mother where you were going
You have never paid for your ticket or the paper that you use to fuel the fire
You know of little villages that the highway bypasses full of farmers and their sons
Jacking off in haysheds, swimming in the dams, covering naked shoulders in clay mud
You know of the men who work on the roads who piss behind their water trucks
Soggy cocks sagging out of zippers facing the sleepy sky waiting for the weekend
When they admit they are full of memories of rubbing naked against furs and velvet
Before skin was full of jagged crags and dirty veins pulsing along hand and wrist
Freedom could have come easy to the men before the challenge and cognac
And medals of war are sold on the street at $20 a piece
A man wins a pin and medallion for killing a foe and his son sells it to a stranger
He uses the money to buy a burger and a coke, this is why we won the war
Why his father dragged his best friend from the mud with a hole in his back
For a burger and a coke, for a beer and a grab, for a wank and piss
When I close my eyes I see dots and stars, I see thin men holding out their hands
And I sit on your step watching the mice arrive stomping the ants as they come
The ridge is on fire with the tree's leaves being tossed with the force of the flame
Is this my dream of what will come of our minds after our hands have been washed
Is this the reality after we drive through the blackened town of where I was born
And the fog comes down in this orchestration pit
Where the stage hands piss, where the singers and the artists paint the fucks
And the cops come running in to bottle the fog that stinks of grandpa's groin
To chain up the ankles of old Saint Nick and Old Saint TIMOTHY
To stick up the posters that advertise the medallions and the burgers and the sleepy old cocks
I want to kiss you on the steps of the burning house here on the ridge
I want to wash your hands of those lines of pulsating dirt
Where are my rabbit skins and where is my taxidermists kit?
Do you love me and my numbers? my 2,4,6,8,10's?
Everything is on fire but the dams and the water trucks- rub the mud in my face
Remember where I'm from, but mention it and I'll kill you, I love you, I love
Kiss me