High On Rebellion

what i feel when i'm playing guitar

is completely cold and crazy,

like i don't owe nobody nothing

and it's just a test just to see

how far i can relax

into the cold wave of a note.

when everything hits just right (just and right)

the note of nobility can go on forever.

i never tire of the solitary E

and i trust my guitar

and i don't care about anything.

sometimes i feel like i've broken through

and i'm free and i could dig into eternity

into eternity riding the wave

and realm of the E.

sometimes it's useless.

here i am struggling and filled with dread

afraid that i'll never squeeze enough

graphite from my damaged cranium

to inspire or asphyxiate any eyes

grazing like hungry cows across the stage or page.

inside of me i'm crazy i'm just crazy.

inside i must continue.

i see her, my stiff muse,

jutting around round round

round like a broken speeding statue.

the colonial year is dead

and the greeks too are finished.

the face of alexander remains not only solely

due to sculpture but through the power and foresight

and magnetism of alexander himself.

the artist must maintain his swagger.

he must he must he must be intoxicated

by ritual as well as result.

look at me i am laughing.

i am laughing.

i am lapping ******* from the hard brown palm

of the bouncer. and i trust my guitar.

therefore we black out together.

therefore i would run through scum.

and scum is just ahead, ah we see it,

but we just laugh.

we're ascending through the hollow mountain.

we are peeking.

we are laughing.

we are kneeling.

we are laughing.

we are radiating at last.

this rebellion is just a gas

our gas a gas that we pass.