Blind your head in catastrophe icicles
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No-one¡¯s fed in cycles led by cycles dead
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Ask to shine the flag
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Love is distance and blue sits like apples bite
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And flows through our hands
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I said hi to a man who shot his sister
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Panned through the station
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And jumped in front of a train
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Said I¡¯m a bit confused to meet you
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Life¡¯s what scissors do to a day
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So their smiles paves the way
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Sand drifts with waves
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And clouds my head cuz I¡¯m a fortune fellah¡¯s bed
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And I¡¯m the tunes played by the goons
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Who ride in fairy¡¯s wombs
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And stole the road the other way
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And sold tomorrow to yesterday and
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I know the feeling of pushing you out of a building
|
Tiny people pulsating hit the sky
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You hit the ground got up and wiped your face
|
You expected to fly, wind up your misfortune
|
Swing ¡®em to a Maitre-Dee
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Who wears dead butterflies on his face
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And is hoping to grow wings
|
He really wants to tell you
|
hey give your tears to today
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Grind yourself souvenirs under your stolen years
|
Hands in your pockets
|
Your hands getting numb been hurt in glinds jive
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Do the avenues that seem to meet defeat you
|
Did you ever try to hug the sky behind your head
|
I walked forever sightseeing a screen
|
Shuffled a mean green ping
|
Dives head first into a hole in the water
|
Drives side to side like a floating machine
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Dove dancing to a fable told in a sea of disintigration
|
Crawl to a celebration of dirt that leaves that taste like wine
|
Sucked from a hair that digs into the darkness
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Full of the fair that my head rides.
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I slide your kind thru a ladder
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Hanging on a star
|
Stray close so far
|
Away from the climb
|
A tape like section of introspection
|
To rewind would be to recline.
|
Hit the pounds underlying gently
|
Ride on the side
|
Tell your problems to zero
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He¡¯s got nothing to hide.
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Untitled #12
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John Frusciante |