literature

10.

Deviation Actions

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moonology1
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Literature Text

war  is  art,
mother  fucker.

i can't think with some one else's words in my head
and i can't think when half of my mind is spelling your name,
over and over,
and i can't think with his dick in my head.
i can't dream sober
of you and weed.
it's wish fulfillment, it's instant gratification,
except for the fact that none of it's real.

i am the narcotics yellow light,
i can only go so far without looking back.
but i never go back, i never stop.
i won't stop.
                   (i fall asleep at the wheel,
                    i dream that i am driving.)

war  is  art,
mother  fucker.
"there is a war going on for your mind."

my head is in headache;
turn the music up 'till they buzz;
wake up in a cold sweat,
look at the dash board from the back seat.

my head is in headache;
me and my dream are at war:
i jump in the car, trying to find something,
but he won't indulge a drunken mess.

wake up in a cold sweat,
look at the dash board from the back seat;
where did he go? he left the car unlocked.
who are they? they gave me time to lock the doors,
but they still want in.

my head is in headache,
me and my dream are at war:
the car won't fucking have it,
it's making unlocked windows for them to get through.
i push the plastic locks down;
the car won't fucking have it,
more windows.
i push more plastic locks down.
more windows;
the car is running out of room,
it's making windows too small for them to fit their hands through.

i wake up in a cold sweat,
look at the dash board from the back seat;
stupid mother fucker,
the dreamer always wins if the dream is lucid.

war  is  art,
mother  fucker.
"you're convinced that we've got a war going on."

turn the music up 'till they buzz,
it's buzzing,
buzz louder.
                   (buzzed, buzzed,
                    another two ridges,
                    too fucking buzzed to care;
                    but this isn't drunk, i swear.)

there are no yellow lines on the ridges of a glass,
no traffic lights, no stop signs,
you just down it all and say "oh fuck" when it's too late,
but it's never really too late,
everything just gets better and better,
"just fill the glass higher and higher."

it's so easy to tear things down when you're drunk,
it's so easy to tear clothes off when you're drunk.

mascara coated tears creeping down my cheeks;
i didn't even think he'd notice,
let alone wipe them away with the whole of his thumb.
                (my mind's wondering to you -)

war  is  art,
mother  fucker.

you can make the right things tick about anyone,
anyone. that's my problem;
constantly attaching and detaching.

smoke's hanging in my garage
for the first time this year,
i guess you can only keep it kicked for so long
'till it breaks you.
and i am broken.

war  is  art,
and  art  is  war,
mother  fucker.

he's ticking now,
and i'm attaching.

i'm an addict.
i am the screaming midas;
everything i touch, i crave.

and he's telling me about how
we'll be in the summer.
and how can i resist being told what to do?
well i can't.

my head is in headache,
and i am in relapse.
i see, in my mind,
how the dash board of his car will look
from the back seat.

war  is  art,
thinking  is  art,
every  one  is  fucked  up  art,
ART  IS  WAR,
mother  fucker.
all my life, i have wanted - like you wouldn't believe - for some one to wipe my tears away with the whole of their thumb.

all parts are true.

("there is a war going on for your mind" - the flobots
"you're convinced that we've got a war going on" - a rewording of a quote from a song by taking back sunday. i don't actually know which song it's from, i only know the quote from the dispute between taking back sunday and brand new.)
© 2010 - 2024 moonology1
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