"PYROMANIAX"
(from
Mood Demistify - 2001)
He
knows he’ll soon die
and I form tears as the
regrets for past
indiscretions illuminate his
eyes.
We’re
going up in smoke
we ain’t got no hope.
We’re going up in smoke
we ain’t got no hope.
Pyromaniax been
sending
letter bombs to sexaholics.
I only check my packages every
six months.
Scared my
mail’s gonna
Molotov cocktail
in my face.
Singe my flesh.
Turn my blood apathetic
‘ til it looses its will to rebuild
like post rebellion Newark
going from caucus to
carcass
while black politicians
feast on the disembowelment of revolution
like vultures.
I said pyromaniacs been
sending
letter bombs to sexaholics
And since they can no longer retreat
to "Plato’s Retreat"
like Nosferatu,
they descend upon the
PATH
from the private bath
houses
of Greenwich Village
to the public crack houses
of Newark, New Jersey.
Injecting each other
with the homonym/synonym of hope.
Worshipping each other's
manhood
in 20 minute tokes.
Like it’s a mystery that
fluid down your throat
could surround your throat
like rope.
Smell the
smoke for years.
Ain't got time to investigate?
Don’t worry about
it.
Eventually letter bombs self-detonate
like Angolan land mines
turning your family members
into embers.
I
said pyromaniacs been
sending
letter bombs to sexaholics.
And on a hundred boulevards around
the globe
at this very moment
middle aged men been
searching for some
unsuspecting teenager
to set their world on fire.
It seems nothing makes
a middle manager
feel more like a man than
sodomizing the menace to
society.
And how many of you are
sure that your current girlfriend’s
former boyfriend
never took a walk through hell?
‘Cause when blood flows
from the upper head
to the lower head
weak heads,
seek head
from crack heads
and explode.
And spend the remainder of their life
in ‘depeche mode.’
Ain’t got time to
live slow
when you only got weeks to
go.
I
said pyromaniacs been
sending
letter bombs to sexaholics.
And every time I see him.
It’s like being shoved into
a garage
filled with carbon monoxide.
And though he knows he’s
dying,
he always manages to smile.
And in his eyes I see the reflection
of hedonistic parties
that began at midnight
and didn’t end ‘til past noon
entire rooms filled with debauchery
sedatives, barbiturates
and entire rooms of pyromaniacs
in search of new initiates.
And him, the vulnerable sexaholic
falling for every good
looking man
and good looking woman he
could
We’re
going up in smoke.
We ain’t got no hope.
And he knows he’ll
soon die,
and I form tears as the regrets
from past indiscretions
illuminate his eyes.
See, letter bombs been
sending letter bombs
to sexaholics and if
you just
get to close to the flame
Icarus,
you fall for it.
"PYROMANIAX"
© 2001 Taalam Acey, All rights reserved.