the untitled works #12

well the high school kids they're all fucked up.
touching each other, oh my god.
yeah and forty ounces was never enough.
we want to pass out in your yard, we want to pass out.
dressing in drag your best friend's clothes,
while boys kissed boys in hotel rooms.
oh and just when we thought we were no longer lost
they kicked us out into the dirty streets of atlanta.

so it's friday night down on north avenue,
where the gas station parking lot prostitutes
tried to fix their hair in our rearview mirrors.
you know we're just trying to get to the club and shake our asses.
a caravan of kids, some big old mess,
on an old wooden dock, oh we're bored to death.
we've got a bottle of wine, a fresh pack of smokes.
we're going to end up screaming about some midnight garage sale.

god, put down your gun can't you see we're dead?
god, put down your hand we're not listening.

the microphone cut off so we're screaming at the top of our lungs.

we are born so fresh, a golden prize,
until you scrape that knee and quickly realize
that you're lost in a fog on your way to death.
oh a thick black line, a thick black line.
so you better speak up, better raise that voice.
come on, scream loud all you girls and boys.
let's get wild, wild, wild. let's rejoice.
c'mon, c'mon. i want to hear that fucking noise.

oh the push and pull of everything, oh this nightmare of electricity.
we are the living dead, yeah the living dead.
that's the way it is. that's the way it's always been.
oh that snake slithered past my house today.
oh i heard he caught you on a dark highway.
no the clouds didn't part they just grew into a storm.
i can still hear the sound of the rolling thunder.

god, put down your gun can't you see we're dead?
god put down your hand we're not listening.
god, put down your gun can't you see we're dead?
i said, god put down your hand we're not listening.
oh we never were.

i want to fuck it up.
i feel so alive.
and i feel.


tilly and the wall, 'nights of the living dead'