1.Brakes Cut
These cement legs ／ spent all their nights just blacking out the
days ／ with warehouse sex ／ where the echoes moaned and the
shadows dripped with sweat ／ till the confetti drops ／ like
fireworks in vacant parking lots, ／ so when we lit the wick, ／
my whiplash blood was begging me to quit. ／／ But it starts slow
／ with a kiss outside the hospital, ／ the lip-gloss, the neck,
and the undertow, ／ the fresh proud bruise art show. ／／ Then you
got me. I'm glad, but you got me. ／ The knots in my body all
tell me you got me. ／ The fire's out in my matchstick mouth ／
and you got me reeling. ／／ So the brakes are cut now ／ from my
armored car doubt, ／ from all the years ／ that you weren't here.
／ So I spit the taste out ／ of every ghost town ／ and all the
years ／ that I was barely here. ／／ But our bad machines ／ are
rusting out in sleepless violent sheets ／ and freezer-burn ／
where we used to ride those cold chemical cures, ／ and we're
bloodshot, ／ weighing sins against the years that they could
cost ／ to pay off ／ and hide behind our two-way mirror thoughts.
／／ And who we were ／ is coming back to you, ／ and who we were ／
is coming back to me, too. ／／ So I am coming back to you. ／／ And
all at once, ／ oh, you got me. You got me. I'm glad, but you got
me. ／ The knots in my body all tell me you got me. ／ I'm caving
in around your skin ／ and you've got me reeling. ／／ So the
brakes are cut now ／ from my armored car doubt, ／ from all the
years ／ that you weren't here. ／ So I spit the taste out ／ of
every ghost town, ／ yeah, I lost some years, ／ but I'm finally
here, oh, ／ with my brakes cut ／ and my hands cuffed ／ to my bad
thoughts ／ and to yours and your wars, ／ and with our brakes cut
／ and our hands cuffed ／ to my bad thoughts ／ and to yours and
our wars.
2.Mouths Still Work
The bad luck season's over, ／ there's no more black wave thirst.
／ All our gods are ashes, ／ and our hands and our mouths still
work. ／ Our mouths still work.
3.Past Lives
So when you dream, ／ it's neon streets ／ and game-show crowds ／
that won't stop clapping. ／ It's hotel skies, ／ collapsing
minds, ／ that heavy penance ／ for past lives, ／ the nights on
fire, ／ the drunken slurs, ／ and the morning hits you ／ like a
dirty word. ／／ Oh, so you make enough money for your cigarettes,
／ but you can't implode without an audience ／ and your lungs try
to tell you that you're going soft ／ while your woman coughs. ／
So you finally got bored of the tourist traps ／ and of drinking
with the girls for the full collapse, ／ so you stopped
disagreeing with the acid thoughts, ／ “Yeah, I'm going soft.” ／／
But when you sing to me, ／ I don't feel their teeth. ／ Ah, when
you sing to me, ／ well, I don't hear anything ／ at all. ／／ And
she was singing, “Does it eat at you？ ／ Baby, 'cause it eats at
me, ／ but if they're getting sick of you, ／ then maybe they'll
get sick of me. ／／ But you make enough money for your
cigarettes, ／ so there's no real reason for an audience. ／ Well,
they came, they came, they stayed a bit, and they just left. ／／
So we'll domesticate our fears, ／ baby, we'll domesticate our
vices, ／ and if you leave me, just don't leave me here ／ in this
silence. ／／ So will you sing to me？ ／ 'Cause I still feel their
teeth. ／ Oh, will you sing to me？ ／ 'Cause I can't hear anything
／ at all ／／ but our past lives, ／ just our past lives.”
4.Stop, Just Stop
Stop, Just Stop
You read big books. ／ I feel so small. ／ Why aren't you small, ／
my love？ ／ You've got big hooks. ／ They make me hurt. ／ Why
don't mine hurt, ／ my love？ ／／ You are my automatic writing, ／
the red tattoos behind my eyelids, ／ but I'm tired of firing
squads, ／ of your bored, indifferent gods. ／／ So when you feel
brave, ／ I'll be your stutter, ／ and when you wake, ／ I'll be
your hangover, ／ and when you try to get straight, ／ I'll be
your drug dealer. ／ So when you get paid, ／ I'll gladly sell you
／／ the wrong words, ／ the whiskey cures, ／ the last real hurt, ／
the one that craves ／ the wrong words, ／ the whiskey cures, ／
the last real hurt, ／ the one you hate. ／／ My god, it's gonna
hurt… ／ oh my god, it's gonna hurt ／ when I'm your modern
American fuck, ／ the modern American love that fucks you up, ／
the one you can't love enough. ／／ I'll have you screaming, ／
“Stop, stop, I'm gonna be sick. ／ Just stop, just stop, I'm
gonna be sick. ／ Just stop, just stop, I'm gonna be sick. ／ Just
stop, just stop. Well, I give up.” ／／ While you're sleeping off
／ our nighttime madness, ／ I'll be your slow dance, ／ your
dime-store romance. ／ In the morning bed, ／ I'll start again. ／
When you say when, ／ I'll fuck you up and fill your head ／／ with
the wrong words, ／ the whiskey cures, ／ the last real hurt, ／
the one that craves ／ the wrong words, ／ the whiskey cures, ／
the last real hurt. ／／ Oh, if I keep loving you, ／ we'll both be
ruled ／ by cosmic fears. ／ If this is loving you, ／ yeah, if
it's this cruel, ／ the worst of it is here. ／ Yeah, my best
hooks are here. ／ The worst of it is here. ／ Yeah, my best hooks
are here. ／ Oh, I hope they hurt.
5.Hunted for Sport
Hunted For Sport
All I want is to be hunted for sport. ／ All you want is to be
professionally mourned. ／／ All we want is to be aimlessly
rutting ／ for eternity, self-immolating and gutting. ／／ And in
the folds of our art, ／ we want our minds to fall apart.
6.Explosion Sounds
So get up and count your teeth ／ and make love on the loan shark
sheets ／ where your girl got passed around ／ to help wash down
the post-war doubt. ／ Or have you lost your taste for it？ ／
Those bloodlust boys and girls don't quit, ／ so there's a crowd
under your clothes, ／ between you both and you can't get close.
／／ So you sleep and she drinks, ／ and you drink and she sleeps,
／ and you blink and she blinks… ／ well, God, ain't love a
fucked-up thing？ ／／ When you choke on your riot tongue ／ and
cheap cologne in the vulgar sun, ／ you'll write it off and lay
in bed ／ with minefield dread and words to shred, ／ but now you
know your friends are rats, ／ and now you drink with baseball
bats, ／ and goddamn, you still want her mouth ／ to drown you out
with explosion sounds. ／／ But you sleep and she drinks, ／ and
you drink and she sleeps, ／ and you blink and she blinks… ／
well, God, ain't love a fucked-up thing？ ／／ But I love the great
obscene, ／ I love the strip club meat, I love the trophy heat, ／
and I know I'll miss your teeth, ／ but God, I love the fucked-up
things. ／／ So if it takes one more time to give this up, ／ then
I'll wait one more night to give you up, ／ but now it seems like
we both like the noose tight ／ and you've got a cutthroat mind ／
and we both like the noose tight, ／ and we both got the rope and
we both got the time. ／／ But I sleep and you drink, ／ and I
drink and you sleep, ／ and I blink and you blink… ／ well, that
is the truly fucked-up thing. ／／ 'Cause we are the great
obscene, ／ and all those girls are cheap, those boys just can't
compete. ／ In our hell, the drinks are free, ／ and we are the
greatest fucked-up things. ／／ So come on, let's barricade the
doors. ／ Yeah, come on, fuck all those rookie whores. ／ Yeah,
come on, let's have a civil war, ／ only stop to call the dealer
and the liquor store. ／ Yeah, come on, let's see what veins are
for. ／ Yeah, come on, let's fuck with hell some more. ／ Yeah,
come on, we'll kill each other, sure, ／ but we won't die alone
and we won't die bored.
7.American Shame
8.Only Death
Through all that frantic summer sex, ／ well, you could summarize
my bones, ／ and yeah, we probably should've guessed ／ those
months were loans. ／／ And it was right when winter peaked ／ when
we were screaming in the streets. ／ We had no pity for the weak,
／ but, damn, we're weak. ／／ So you shot up in bed at night. ／ I
kept my eyes closed while you packed. ／ I thought you'd lose
your appetite ／ when it bit back. ／／ But you were singing
“Wicked Game.” ／ I'd never felt such brutal flames. ／ We swore
that only death could make us tame, ／ and now we're tame.
9.The Abyss and I
I'm drinking like I can find the finish line. ／ Can you be
outside my place at nine？ ／ Yeah, we can drink till we find a
consolation prize, ／ we can spit at the sky, we can be baptized.
／／ Was I ever wrong about you？ ／ Was I ever wrong about you？ ／
Oh, was I ever wrong about you. ／／ I'm drinking like I might
find that hell ran dry, ／ so now there's only fire or an endless
night. ／ So I will drink till I find you standing outside ／ like
a busted streetlight, like you were my type. ／／ Well, was I ever
wrong about you？ ／ Was I ever wrong about you？ ／ Oh, was I ever
wrong about you. ／／ Well, was I ever alone before you？ ／ Well,
was I ever alone before you？ ／ Well, was I ever alone before
you. ／／ We're drinking like we can find the finish line, ／ so
when you sin at night, you'll do it by my side, ／ and we will
drink till we find a consolation prize ／ while you waste your
time with the abyss and I.
| 
