South Bay, on a Sunday/
With my head splayed, wide open/
When I go dark, I won’t take you with me/
When I go dark, I won’t take you with me/
Been a dead bulb always/
With a little bit of flicker in my off days/
When I go light, I won’t need you with me/
When I go light, I won’t need you with me/
The Sanhedrin, standing in a line/
They had Jesus, for witchcraft and crimes/
Ask Pontius for his reason to the rhyme/
Seething with unease when he speaks of Eden Prime/
He’s leaving, couldn’t he be decent in time?/
To at least leech freedom out of bleeding out his eyes/
Screaming, trying to believe in what he’s supposed to/
Another near disaster coming close to/
A person who could knock the needle off it’s track/
Setbacks in what we think we’re supposed to have/
I’ll hang a million dollar bill over every fucking flame/
Knowing that it isn’t mine, knowing that it came from pain/
We hold ourselves to blame when the tide comes in/
Not knowing that the time is thin/
Every lie I’m in, that shit is substantial/
Reap, sow, reap, sow, you could have a handful/
I wish for better days, through the malaise and all the hassle/
Get me off my face, from the carpet or the gravel/
Stay straight laced with the lady and the apple/
William Tell, bad aim, worse example/
Falling yet again, the sidewalk relents/
A squeezed Valencia, paints the cement/
The Fisher King, dipping hearts in porcelain mugs/
The jig is up, spit it out and give it up/
Pin a crux to my vest like it’s Sunday best/
And appeal to the judge so my trial ends/
Post haste, a ghost waits for no man/
A dalliance with the devil in a cloaked dance/
Low stakes from Slauson down to Rosecrans/
Eat crow when I know it’s time to go man/
Automatic lights bleached my hair like the sun/
Drained of my tungsten, seemingly for fun/
Sometimes my eyes are wider than my appetite/
A glutton of the flesh playing chicken with the afterlife/
An understated mess giving bad advice/
Like, there ain’t no sin, there ain’t no virtue/
We only find both, depending on world view/
Everything’s objective, until it happens to you/
Your own fucking blood, tries to sully your name/
Holding out his palm like “This is the Conspirator Chain”/
And then you’re filled to the brim, like you hate what you know/
Like you wish that you were ignorant, you wish you were home/
And you wish that your wishes were stitched into bone/
So no one ever leaves, no one ever needs stones/
To signify who they were when they were/
