consider yourself warned.

it’s great your dog’s a rescue,
and that you’re a pacifist.
but saying you want world peace
doesn’t mean i’ll show you my tits.

the cake theory.

the way i see it,
you can have your cake and eat it too,
only so long as you take the whole cake
instead of just one slice, asshole.

facebook sends its love.

i think i would let you break my heart again.
rip it out and spit on it again.
just because i don’t care enough to
find something better.

listen to me.

you know what?

i don't know who you are.
and i don't think i want to.

so why don't you chew on that for a while?

nobody puts katie in a corner.

i can't whittle you down
into a list of pros and cons,
of yes and no,
of twilights and dawns.

it's not a simple matter
of what to do,
rather, it's the question
known as "who are you?"

i am a liar, liar, pants on fire,
liar, pants on the floor.
and you are a taker and lover and feeder.
so which one of us is the whore?

and are you just another rake
in the shape of dorian gray?
or are you a brightbright little liar
with brightbright eyes of the day?

i am a liar, liar, pants on fire,
liar, pants on the floor.
and you are a taker and lover and feeder.
so which one of us is the whore?

if you get to burn down your nicotine,
the sure as hell i will too.
and pack by pack i'll stab your back,
just to follow that golden rule.

i'll bury with you this letter.
it says: i thought you were perfect,
but you weren't worth it.
so take back the bedrooms,
the fighting, the backseats,
the "i know forever we'll be."

i am a liar, liar, pants on fire,
liar, pants on the floor.
and you are a taker and lover and feeder.
so which one of us is the whore?

and in california,
you'll meet that old lover.
you'll want her and need her
and you'll try to please her

yet when the air begins
to be heavy again,
you will move onto some
other flower bed.

i am a liar, liar, pants on fire,
liar, pants on the floor.
and you are a taker and lover and feeder.
and now i'm not really sure.

your god.

your "god" resides in shopping malls at christmastime.
giving out candy canes and collecting money,
(a portion of) which goes to a charity, and telling
the children to be good for Santa.
afterwards passing by a freezing man burning a book to stay warm.
thank jesus it wasn't the bible
and give it no other thought.

your "god" sits within his church or temple,
whichever is "the one,"
next to the girls who sit through an afternoon mass,
waiting for the alter boys to kiss them and sneak them
"the blood of christ."
with men who dominate their wives while their many children watch,
and the oldest heats up pasta,
so that her mother may ice her eye with their sunday steak.

your "god" lives within capitalism
and christian barbeques
and secret abortions for trophy wives
in the back of a shed where people go to take
(hits of marajuana)
away another
little
problem.

bowing to your "god"?
no, thank you.
i will instead battle the
unknown.
and leave you with
your pretty white smiles,
all pearly white lies.

"swollen-foot"

the oracle told me, told me
that you were going to fuck your mother.
you mother lover, lover, lover, love.
the oh-rih-gin-al.
mother lover.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle confided in me
that you were going to walk like a pidgeon.
you fucking cripple, cripple, cripple, oh.
ankles, oh, oh.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle confessed to me
that it knew about your fucked little family.
dys-func-tion-ohl!-ohl!-ohl!-oh!
dysfunction-ah-ah-oh-luh.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle, the oracle, the oracle-oh-oh.
what a genius.
blind as a white man.
the oracle.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle told me, told me.
that you were going to love your mother.
you mother fucker, fucker, fucker, fuck.
you son,
you son of a gun.