CAR

I wanna see your hands, wrapped around my neck.

If I am born of blood, it tastes like shame.

What’s one more drink?

And so I wash it down.

Pseudo thoughtfuls think.

In substance I drown.

What’s one more pill?

And so I swallow away.

My Shepherd works the corner, and to a vice I pray.

My crisis averted, when Christ was aborted.

And now we’re all killers, sinners, guilty.

Washed in the river – filthy.

Gutters, Virgin Mothers – left me here to suffer.

Bleak night.

Blaspheme.

Left in the trenches of mangers when you were a child.

Raised in the trenches, born in the trenches, came from the trenches and no, we’ll never

get out.

We had youth (we had you)

Until we washed ourselves –

in the river.

Take me.

I’m fucking filthy.

Oh you try and save me.

But I’m too guilty.

Guilty of nothing.