Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Ask iAN * A gentle walk down Catatonique Lane

Ask iAN

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Ask iAN * A gentle walk down Catatonique Lane



Late night wide eyed in this silver lone ranger silent film light the trees bare dry fruit
of old L.A. Weeklys, empty medicine bottles with a sliver extract of milky cataracts in the lopsided's nights like these that sometimes help make sense of the stars above

Nights like these when people mirror sling shots
and asylums almost look tantalizing and life itself a beast at most, a great yawning oaf
of the gutless strife
pampered and pulling it's hair out over a lost loaf of stale bread

Every man looks like a dirty kitchen
and every woman a match strike
and children with sleep sealed eyes grope through a dark swamp
on the hunt for coin

Televison teeth and
Our Sacred seedless grapes of lobotomy
Our sands of intestines
a soap opera with it's head in a sling
a bandaged Visa card with swollen face numerals

It felt pretty queer to be dreaming of subways and slingin' tar
it felt pretty good too, just ta come back Home and fetch a pail ah well water

When the heart's one true desire gives off the odor of a buried bird it's time to re'examine the charts
break the quill pen in two
and come to terms that there ain't nothin' left to do but drive
cook your face over easy into a motel pillow
chase out the wildflowers
muted televison teeth gazing down on your hide
strike up the motor before the blue sun turns sizzling

uprooting the umbilical chord and it's biblical C major note
you don't need to hitch a ride to the moon to be an astronaut

In my jean pockets I got loose change, the face of
Einstein, 7 lighters and I am gumless with nothing to chew but the face in the mirror

Happiness was born to collapse
the fainted stain of the face of christ worn into the pocked foam sinking bridge
 of the crutch that fits under your arm
a crutch so big it took a ghost train to bring it

Now it's time to sleep
all those dry budless drapes done buried and gone
i got my dirty angel paw nestled beneath my jaw
the hint of early morning piss on the wind
and the rocks that never die out there on the rustic train trestles
tomorrow i will tape two ten dollar bills to an apple and send it through the picture window
of the first haunted house i encounter...for what's left of you is more than what's left of me inside...and
that will be my own home
3 rd house
on the


In the mind of the catatonic...every flower is a rose*

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