It is among the breathing ghosts that I long to talk
And amid their elusive spheres where I ache to fly;
free, not tied to a place that gets off on clever lies,
and the preconception that the self is a form of God.
Gone is the dust that renders us to all to the floor,
gone is the pretension,
Gone is the redemption,
Gone are the masks that make up our make-up.
Gone are the monsters that make us scream
That tear a tear at this phony empty world of seem.
In this place we are simple…perfect:
Not honed by our bought misconceptions
Or held by our greed ridden nonsensical
enevitably Leaving me to this conclusion
That everying is a jest, a joke,
Nothing but a huge fucking poke,
and in the backroom the madcap laughs
At our nonsensical human chaff’s,
so what is there else to say?
Nothing from this ball of clay!
and what else is there here for me to cling to?
No… there’s nothing else for me to want: execept you.