Lemon

When I went off the deep end
I breathed in and then I fell asleep
Now I am often better off off beat
I’ve been handed the lemon in the rhythm of my life and I found it so sweet
I still got some of that pulp between my teeth
This is not a monotonous rhythm as much as a shout out to Magritte
I’m not a Van Gogh. I’m not a Monet. I’m not a Matisse
I’ve been practicing my dancing and drinking and been keeping on my feet
Because abstract thinking hasn’t helped me sleep
And this city grid and my steady pulse are both proof that I’m not dead
And it’s ringing bells inside of my head
Anything that I could have on my mind at the time has already been said
By the bad imagery of that algorithm instead:
Control. Alt. Delete. I’ll be obsolete scenery
I’ll be obsolete scenery as soon as you want
Don’t mind me or anything you may have seen recently
Cos what you may have seen recently is not much
And I know recently I been teetering on the edge of linguistic tradition in the
dome
Drawing a paralanguage parallel to the bone
So farewell to the relics that I left back where I made my home
You go on make that lemonade on your own
I can’t help but ask myself, «what does this all mean to me?»
Or «what would this all mean to you?» instead
This lemon looks a little bit like that old greenery
Like that old greenery that’s dead