i m not who with my eyes from stage i claim to be i ve only cradled death in my own ending flesh from far off and abstracted lit candle wick flickering and when a thing starts finishing around me i faint or fake a mustache an accent or flee in fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximity fact the poseur in the bowler gets shot first thinks he s the shit cause he can spit and curse acting brash and flashing a pistol that squirts scowling and shouting shall we dance should our hero s hands be holding this blackest purse mom am i failing or worse mom am i failing what should these earnest hands be holding still sporting my ex girlfriend s dead ex boyfriend s boxers i want to operate from a base of hunger no longer be ashamed and hide my tears in shower water while i lather for pleasure i want to speak at an intimate decibel with the precision of an infinite decimal to listen up and send back a true echo of something forever felt but never heard i want that sharpened steel of truth in every word the small fry in the bow tie dies first acting wild like the spirit of god moving after church faking he s hard like he s packed down dirt already and yelling be my guest should our hero s hands be holding this blackest purse mom am i failing or worse mom am i failing what should these earnest hands be holding should our hero s hands be holding this blackest purse mom am i failing or worse mom am i failing what should these earnest hands be holding 