I miss the drunk, I miss the fiend
I miss the simplicity of addiction and the scene
I miss wandering aimlessly in half dead sewers
With rats for eyes chewing on forgiveness and the will to apologize
I miss the return of no return as I burn in avalanche of white snow and yellow cocaine
I miss talking to brick walls while following the grain
And human dolls as I plagiarize myself like a dummy
Stuffed with counterfeit money for Cairo and black honey
I miss illusions begging to be chased
Even as they disappear into me erased
Until there is no one or nothing but the chase
And a powdery ghost with no face or faith
And the woman of my dream disappearing without grace
Rob from always on the run is so bad and copy paste is a sin
I Miss The Zoo
I Miss The Zoo
I Miss The Zoo
I miss evolving into a cloud of blue marijuana
Blown from the lips of hookers and pimps
As they smack each other down in alleys for the dammed but mighty
With no one but the weak around and the beautiful unsightly
I miss numb Neanderthals marching in rows of living dead
From my wisdom teeth to Spain and back again in my head
I miss salvation in syringes and angels of mercy
In blooms of smoke numbing rain which drinks when thirsty
I miss glasses full of spirits who without tongues speak to me of napoleons wild nights
I miss staying up for days and becoming a psychic pretzel flying kites
Chewed on by a Zulu heading with toads to mars
A mysterious prison and one without bars
I Miss The Zoo
I Miss The Zoo
I Miss The Zoo
I miss waking in the arms of strangers like puppies
Just born in the pound to a dead mother with eyes sealed shut
Looking for a tit to suck and other dangers
When only the night before laughter was the only pursuit
Even as knives carved up our backs and demons sat like Buddhas eating fruit
Meditating on hate forever in our minds
I miss exposing my bones and the need that rewinds
Even my burning home, even my gutted inner child
Even my dead grandfather beneath the ground that's wild
Even my criminal family, even my weedwacker thoughts
Whipping a thin plastic string to cut the ears of others as I sing
I miss van Gogh's revenge, I miss his nightly binge
I miss spiders surrounding my bed and lifting me as if an effigy
Or a Dead King or a prophet of doom
A Jesus for the apocalypse wearing dirt like perfume
Or a mother for Satan or a ghost for all the children of abuse
And taking me into the fire watching me burn like a goose
As they sing in spider voices
There goes creation, there goes the moon
There goes the butterfly wanting a cocoon
I miss being a bloom and a goon
Too soon, in the afternoon
A doctor of regret
Hanging onto guitar strings in tune
And hanging by a belt wrapped around some pipe to nowhere and felt
My lips too wrapped around what appears to be stained glass
As religious figures dress like rocks with class
Burn into gas to the center of my brain
The euphoria of dying and being born all at once
While wearing the hat that reads 'dunce'