Aggressive Perfector*

*from Slayer's 'Haunting the Chapel', 1984


She came along and took it from my hands, the blanket I'd woven for myself.
It engulfed her like blood, like a comfort so few would understand.
She filled it out much better than I ever could have, the bumps and curves in all the right places.

There was something fundamentally wrong with the picture, though.
This was me and what I am. This was building quite a dam.
This was every overtaking I'd resisted for years.

She came along and wrapped herself in it, the crimson cover I had sought.
It kissed every line and ran like wildfire over every single turn.
The body was definately still warm.

There was something indecent about the thoughts I couldn't contain.
This was my last straw of pride. There was no one left on my side.
This was the loss of a fate I couldn't quite make.

She took it off, only to rise again, freed from sanguine captivity.
It fell like the curtain from some show only I could see.
She made it her own in a way that was still foreign to me.

There was something wonderful about the abandonment I felt.
This was me, once again alone, and this was me, chilled to the bone.
This was the fear I needed, and now I'm beautifully unwhole.

You May Now Respond

Through the blood red sky you can stare with a potent mix of anger and shame,
and you can wonder what kind of man I've become, and try to shift the blame,
but I'm telling you one last time I don't need you, you never helped me become whole,
and I could give two shits about the fake impact you think you've had on my soul.

In the pale morning light you can squint and seek out the motives driving my hate,
and you can ponder your words to me, guessing what was to be the crap laid upon my slate,
but I swear to God and all below that your advice has been taken worth a grain of salt,
and no matter what else comes out of my mouth, you better know it's not your fault.

With decline in mind, through the blistering heat of all of our last days,
you can count the prayers that you held for me, and question them in so many ways,
but it's fact tried and true that I'll never need you to intervene for my sake,
and I better not see any crocodile tears when they close the casket at my wake.

These Lies, Our Chosen Roles*

*from "Of One Blood" by Shadows Fall

Decadence and degradation, after all it's worth at least a paid vacation.
It's time to go under the cloak and dagger, for one last night, I'll turn and swagger.

I've got too many chips to cash out now, and I'm not yet done being under the plow.
So you pour this shit in front of me, right there where all my eyes can see, but I'll have the control you'll never be.
It wasn't denied for lack of brain, no matter how ill-gotten the gain, it was what kept me from going insane.

But I'm stronger than all now, the blindfold is gone.
I'm seeing more than all now, between the right and wrong.
I'm making amends now to all I've hurt,
but I can't take the blood off my own shirt.

It's time you saw what they made me do.
This was the crux of my new attitude.
But the truth is something worse I can't stop.
I can't deny wanting every last drop.

So what do I face and how do I replace all the locations I am going?
How many times must I repeat the crimes to all the new people I'm knowing?
And how the hell do I fight the smell of the bottles so beautifully glowing?

I've got no answers, no time left, not another moment to act bereft.
I've got just enough energy here to contemplate this theft.

Mapping Pantallica

These times are said to try men's souls.
No tears can cleanse these regrets.
I'm bone, brain, and cock.

Would you look at me now, and can you tell I'm a man?
Hold my breath as I wish for death.
Language of the mad...

Mutiny in the air...
You can't be something you're not.
All alone, and the memories still remain.

This world is shattered.
No damn chains can hold me to the ground.
Where's the dreams that I've been after?

When I die, I'll cast a shadow.
What's done is done and gone, so why try?
This shortest straw has been pulled for you.

Quitting

I'm smelling myself in past dimensions,
because my mind's still going in a mllion directions,
and synasthesia's still scaring the shit out of me.

The taste and smell were always the same,
and they made me so glad that you came,
and I can't believe this fear is what will make me free.

The continued pulsing won't go away with time,
and I'm still being punished with enjoyment of the crime,
and no pill I swallow will make it go away.

So this is the feeling, to unburden myself,
to stick every last bottle up on a shelf,
and tell a room of strangers what I've done...?

Well then I'm left here just asking
whose will I've been tasking,
and what the hell do I do now for fun?

Without a Hangover

Staring out the window at what the realtor called a 'view,'
I shudder to wonder at what matters less.
Is it me or the archane systems I represent at every turn.

Flipping through the pages of what my uncle calls the 'news,'
I listen for anything worth calling noise.
Is it me or the silence that makes me sick?

Sifting through the seeds & stems of what my buddy calls 'good times,'
I try to feel anything sharp enough.
Is it me or the grass that makes t.v. bearable?

Picking through the scattered remains of what Mom called 'leftovers,'
I try to imagine what sense I'll still feel.
Is it me or the mustard that stains everything?

Sitting on that wooden perch your father called 'an example,'
you try to pretend I'm what you worked for.
You laugh because there's nothing to say.*

*Slipknot, "No Life" Slipknot (1999)

Caana

I'm addled in what you've designed.
It's what causes these spaces in my mind.
It's what leaves me unable to find
the place where the world should be kind.

I'm strapped in for a daily ride.
It's what leaves me without any pride.
It's what makes me wish I'd already died,
while I wait for your disease to kill me from inside.

I'm sniffing at every new scent.
It's what leaves me broken & bent.
It's what leaves my head with a dent,
while I beg for more time to pay rent.

I'm wondering what happens now.
It's why I pointlessly rub my brow.
It's what breaks me under the plow.
It's why I'm dying, but just not how...