The Truth About Speedballs
dreams like this so hot and fertile, so convincing
that they are dreams, so conniving when they are exposed
for the lies they are and how deep they lie in our hearts
we convince ourselves it is somehow sexy, playful fun
we are tired of all that is going down, all that is being done
to us about us for us to us some more
lying across fields of poppies with scarred bulbs
while dreams of llamas pulling bundles of coca leaf
through the winding Inca trails of the Andes
two great lies start as simple truth in the beginning
two reasons the truth becomes twisted from vein to lung
to heart to mind to soul to mouths that speak it
to eyes that give it away with such sad beauty
defensive retorts come forth flaring through nostrils
smoked out through lungs shot out through blood filled rigs
as the dragon's tail twists it's way up the final spinal staircase
sinking in deep with needle point teeth
to intertwine inside the Andean allkaloid's
nest of unrest and helicopter disturbance
like the stomping of a billion spider legs
underneath itchy skin-covered meat monkeys
as sock covered feet become drenched cottons
in silver spoon shoes heated by flames of uncontrolled desires
becoming lies that burn lives beyond recognition
because it feels so powerful bad it seems like the only good
we might know as we lie down with it coiled up inside of us
dreaming of peaceful war like turmoil might set us free
while real peace and serenity run away from us
like frightened rabbits run down holes away from a hope
we let go of in silence as we cry "help!" with scratched vocal chords
too often or too late to ever let go completely of a synthetic umbilical
that has become a noose around our life we call no home
as we are always so desperate for a home
as the psychotic break tears away more and more
until we are owned by fields of poppies with scarred bulbs and baskets
of coca leaves that slide down steep hillsides into kerosene and lye
thrown into vats of hydrochloric acid baths that dissolve the natural bond
to begin forming into the pasty, sticky chains of tar with no feathers
that bind us fast to the lies we tell ourselves over and over
so the lies we tell those who love us seem real enough
to buy one last moment in the bathroom alone
it all rages down corridors of blood patterns screaming out for more
taking with impunity everything you got while playing out
peanut butter cup commercial jingles all the way home
two great tastes in one bent spoon lie that never tells on itself
until it is too late, never gives up until it is too much
you would save yourself if you could, but this shot
is just maintenance until the next round
sometimes you are knocked out
before you ever hear a bell
even though bells are all
you ever listen for
I used to lie to myself
thinking that was heaven
nitrogen jaguars patrolling
my bloodstream
hunting down the last of my of
my oxygen as if it was easy rabbit prey
I have to remember
I was never cured of lying
to myself
or anyone else
