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Cannonball Statman
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Rats and Reptiles
In seclusion, Chaquina throws fecal matter at a mirror;
and through one brave sliver of light shining into my room, I see a grown woman of fourteen years scare the putrid life out of a gang of armed guards, flinging her legs and fists across the universe.
Hey Doctor, why are we on lockdown again?
There's no emergency on Ward 7 North; only dreadful poison oxygen and rage and religion and nightmare television and poser cronyism.
Hey Doctor, take me fishing;
I want to lick hieroglyphic spit formations around your rotator cuff, as tomorrow's sushi machinery breaks down slowly, violently trashing over your syringe-worthy hands, over the river, gasping, flailing 'till she utters her last flap, her final offering to the cold universe, her magnum opus;
surely she knew her last taste of this precious manic waltz was delivered by the hands of a master clinician, a great healer, a true friend, a profoundly sentient aristocrat of unfathomable virtue who would kill to taste her flesh, and even graciously allowed my pedestrian hands to beat my guitar strings in heretically clumsy syncopation with the sealing of her fate.
Hey Doctor, let's never do that again.
What's up, Doc? Your heart's been racing all week.
Hey Doctor, do you ever see things that aren't there?
Do you ever feel so lonely that you just want to melt?
Do you wanna dance with somebody, with somebody who loves you?
I can help with that.
Because in droves, materializing from all directions, trillions of lost souls in ailing vessels made the mighty pilgrimage to this overpriced island to see you, Doctor;
with tumors and compulsions and convulsions, palpitations and earthquakes and cancers and scurvy and pimples and pneumonia and amnesia and lyme disease and endlessly evolving paranoid fantasies, suicidal heartthrobs, slain dissidents and slaves, Find more lyrics at ※ Mojim.com freakish fetishists and pioneers of abstinence, Motörhead and aliens and absinthe, and the quietest man you've never heard and Odyssean sirens and awkward blood transfusions,
a girl who lies habitually, but sits upright in bed with boys and wounded vultures, while Williamsburg transplants eat trash to save cash and one-up the natives below the poverty line, while stingy art professors sell propagandized adolescence to cults of narcotized codependent students, and some boys on Malcom X Boulevard dream of California, as a lone Grandmaster Flash track cuts through the midsummer rat piss power drill noisescape: 'IT'S LIKE A JUNGLE SOMETIMES,'
it's like death, from the air, under the door, behind you, behind your office.
Doctor! He's dead; he's whining outside your office!
Doctor! He's death; he's waiting, and
he brought everybody, everybody he could take everybody he brought, he brought with him, everybody came!
Doctor! They're waiting outside! They all came to see you!
(That's what you wanted, right?)
Hey Doctor, I'm concerned!
Your blood pressure is alarmingly high today, and your face is so pale!
I can see the imploding remnants of your fragile mutant ego, falling through your legs and the floorboards into the sewer around the cockroach colonies, decomposing in a vicious airborne fetal devolution scum dance before the eyes of rats and reptiles;
I can see your first and final teardrop, sliding around your face along the side of your nose.
That teardrop knows it'll hit the floor without a sound, its purpose served within a matter of seconds.
Hey Doctor, the people will see you now.
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