Tekster: 13 And God. Superman On Ice.

Somewhere between motivated and cold

You on the ledge of all 241 ways to be you. . .basing guess upon guess
there. . where . . somewhere between motivated and cold
believing your good freinds down to the bile in there beautymarks. . .
they Who found you counting back toward yourself
so haven't dremt and heavily armed
yet another blues thief told in however and oneday. . .

And every Monday things begin with indiscriminate street noise
more vague and normal alliance of all those with high levels of work
in their blood and clock in their wake
up early shaving damp breakfast skulls with fresh lady's leg razor
so that the oneday the moon might hold a half a million nice size hoods easy
and plenty fast restaurants

by cum and by egg
and laid low into creature
then
cast out in the one cold of all names,

this song about siabowed sperm
and the mining of human concern
many cells split, many men died in 1998
the year of my strong, fair rap collection

There are foot prints embraced for out on the frozen lake face
depressed and kept from quite some cold ago,
and they look brave, dangerous, man made
the sort of mark one can make on the world.

You borrwed the camera from why
and set it up by th printer and horse head
obssed with your pressing record
to indulge in the shallows of here and immortal

it is god to name things from thin air
to have wind blow a few hundred dollar bills into your wallet.

to have 100cc's liquid luck supplement bug into your blood
by needle point and distant star

are you loosing yourself in the quiet cell abandoned old okland patns undone, stole eye starting water
nailing a sign that speaks frear to a bank at the man made lake

you cop you

Will you now resort to black umbrellas in the sight blanching sun
or stay indoors taking the pill to your face. . .

Striking that lighting on nothing
attempting to teach yourself the art of cloning at home
in a smock killing single cell sheep for stright weeks till you give it all up for photoshop and unsing your teeth

there in a box with your things stabbed airholes and one wing or white lung, when your well you stay

since there is a certain modern earth pain only fit for enduring which one does endure

like returning a foster-child twice or
going the distance on songs for a compilation.

No one's out there scared you'd set your eyes off
all night on the ceiling in the dark
think of a song or maybe breasts

I thought I told you, this is not new. . .

Skinned by the speed of my one life
you have that desperate fair to your eyes
the look of a child who has just swallowed a coin or army man
almost too attuned to the spoils of loved
wishing he'd been born some sort of succulent or larvae
but your to soft for all that
you like your blood kept in the movies
and your head in a jar or a base in a van on tour
your guts clumped like dung in a sturdy hatbox
heart slung safely in the stomach of a clean sock or two
here you are a bag of milk to do tricks
and not as a function of pennies.
and how you've dreamt
nosdam's skull been predatored
given a split at the hairline
and hinged with a lid and in it placed
the single hard marble of art
and it is there it is kept