Testo Gnashville

sometimes i claim to know a guy but i can't tell you what his hands look like.

guess who's coming to dinner.

gnashville. never in the night.

never in the night when the knot grows tighter than thinkers can untie
and all the last half dammed rivers have gone dry does the cock crow thrice until someone is denied
or the morning comes
you wonder if you ever get your shit together
what is that a leather sofa and a feather in an old fur hat
fake tat lost in a box of cracker jacks
practicing your plane wreck face in a first class lav

(that's what the ghost of someone's dad might say)

when they come calling, i won't go calm
there is no palm or devying pate
with which to hold one's pit
or seperate the human race from its enviroment
no scattered ashes loosely gather asking where the fire went
we're left with half truth psalms in an indecypherable scrawl in some vague extinct language
ancient ink dull, almost vanished on some old brittle scroll

(that's what the ghost of someone's dad might say)