Behind the Scenes

I am twitching like I’m bridging the gap of a missing synapse
Myriad scars from multiple clinical mishaps
So many belly buttons, that should tell me something
But it doesn’t, so I’m slumming with all the usual riff raffs
Gift wrapped effigies of Oscar the Grouch
That I bought back in August but lost in the couch
And it cost me an arm and a leg and a mouth
And I’m out like a mouse-- what am I talking about?
This is nonsense constant
Subconscious concepts with no context
A nonstop onslaught of content
Pardon the jargon of marketing harkening back to the crack of dawn
Banners, battalion standards along the lines of battle drawn
Not long ago I used to tag along with vagabonds
Now I’m big time like the watch on a mastodon
Mikey BRBRCK-star
Doper than the weed in your sock drawer
Perpetual sophomore, marred with experiential pock marks
Start up in the dark arts, optimistic stock chart prediction
Sunny twenty-sixteen, say the men in pristine suits with barbaric predilections
Finally somebody putting function to fiction and fuckbois to fire in a final
benediction, like
I DEDICATE THIS DEATH TO ODEN
Foreboding omens floating upon an ocean of broken tokens
Eye for an eye, spy vs. spy, this is
My perfect high, fly birdie fly
Hold vigil with your sigils in the middle of the cage
If you need me, I’ll be backstage
It’s easy, there’s a trick to it: you either do it, or you die
Whoa whoa whoa
Better walk away from the Old World streets now
Whoa whoa whoa
Gods in the walls and they’re walking down the streets now
Approach cautious the most boss Colossus
And don’t talk shit ‘cause most gods are flawed
It’s a low-cost fix for post-loss barrages
A throat lozenge to choke all responses
To faux paux sins and cold calls from novice
Who go all in, lowball the offer
A no-nonsense proposal to ponder
Of ghost chalk prints and close calls with monsters
Quiet little lake town shake down
Dead wife, magic money, children in the lake now
What does it take to con a whole nation?
Hushed conversations, low-key locations
Hierarchy rotations, centuries-old handshakes
Roadside attractions, warlocks at the clambake
So pour it on ‘til the dam breaks
Latch on like a lamprey
This moron cut the damn brakes
Now it’s a runaway campaign
From Champagne with glam dames in ball gowns
To a back alley huff sesh with a mall clown
Feeling high like a short sky on tall ground
The spirit catches you, and you fall down
It’s easy, there’s a trick to it: you either do it, or you die