I’m a hypnogogic terorrist.
I’m a hypochondriac blessed
with the knowledge of everyone
who’s died and the way
that they all dressed.
I feel my bile rising like
so many red blue jeans.
Tell me baby, whatever happened
to those twenty-something dreams?
I must need the angel.
She sure as hell don’t need me.
I must need the angel s
o I can have a place to be.
I’m in the excavator.
I’m holding knives in my mouth.
It’s out of obligation
since I was forced to move down South. I
’m in Port Chicago waiting for my angel to report.
She’s got forty faces
and her hair’s eight miles short.
I must need the angel.
She sure as hell don’t need me.
I must need the angel
so I can have a place to be.
When I die, burn me to ash.
Throw away everything I own. Let him play his trumpet.
Don’t ever unlock my cell phone.
If you hear these songs tonight
and you think they might be about you,
they probably are.
Spare yourself some trouble.
Don’t ask questions
you don’t want to know the answer to.
I must need the angel.
She sure as hell don’t need me.
I must need the angel
so I can have a place to be.
Okay?