all the telephones say we like
to speak in a forked tongue.
to keep our hands clean,
we fuck with dull knives,
and we're keeping tabs
to make sure that
no one here gets out alive!
please sign your name on the dotted line.
electric lady came to me in a daydream,
singing in key,
to the tune of a
pitchfork apocalypse.
a digital baby came to me in my sleep saying
if i want to learn to speak,
i'll start keeping track of my teeth.
we're so over dramatic,
stick this knife in my side just to spite my heart.
and it's so
post-traumatic.
this funeral party is dead,
and we're sending thank you cards.
i'm beginning to learn to pay my way
through benign tumors and manageable pain.
where there's a will there's a way.
i'm calling the doctor but
they say he's not in,
and i'm calling your priest but
he won't absolve my sins.
i'm calling hotlines but
all operators are currently busy.
i'm calling neighbors but all of them are watching movies,
none of them are living.
they're all praying to gods they found on the tv.
oh no.