just say the word, and lights go out in blinding static in your area
throughout the magic patterns of our psychotropic stare and the
peripheral circumference - like the grid that's grainy in your vision
clicking like the rhythm of your brain when you begin to listen
tripping off the dual way that a wave can make itself displayed
fractals gladly frayed since some old Prankster spiked the kool-aid
and "time keeps on slipping, slipping"
slipping in and out of rationality and purgatory
I might walk that line, but this mentality is working for me
salary by day, but rock the galleries and lounges
patrons don't support the talents, to the wages need to balance
from the stage, it's like a blend of Zen and enemies to rage against
mental sketches rendered 'fore the writing on the page commence
bent - as if I'm sketching out the borders of the shadows
of the letters of the lines that have divinely teleported, traveled forcefully
through exit portals coursing through my nervous system
expertise of intake rid to implement the words given
and twist them over instruments - best to be the grin, reflected sinister
to savor the insanity whenever the solution is administered
left to being solo in the open in a field with only echoes
is the only way to know that we are limitless...

I conjure necromantic words that when heard will dent, blur, or crystalize
Portishead "rip" or distort static like them Philly guys
my eyes are more than meets Transformers, buzzing in my cortex
ear hammers drum as humming echoes through the vortex
and there's something of a missed, distant communication stuck
between my molars and my memory, and I don't give a fuck
so you can mutter all your 'Generation eXcess' stuff in my direction
fuzziness from drugs has plugged the most central connection
I've built it up, so bullshit gets deflected to saliva glands
I spit so you won't notice how continually high I am
focused on the wires and the fire in my center
stokes my kindling to know that folks are liars with their own agenda
rise like the tides when our satellite rock is swollen
wise like the guides of the ages who are holding down the pages
as the wind shifts through its phases on a monthly basis
take it with the eyes the spirits gave us 'fore it all erases.