They Shot John Lennon's Brain

from The Disquieted Mixtape by Simian Simpleton

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lyrics

I've sat in a room alone staring at backs of posters.
Imagining emotion channel through the brush and splattered over.

I stare at the three remaining leaves on my tattered clover,
And stand in line to rest my neck upon god’s shattered shoulder.

Scraping up my thought pennies. A verbal plasma donor.
Catacombs of human nature carve us into laughing soldiers.

Walking through the bones. Ravaged by the cackling vultures.
I think I’m just about high enough to start acting sober.

The pigs happily roll over. I get tapped on the cold shoulder.
We’re all mad at the stone throwers and casual pageant goers.

The reaper’s sack bulges. The time for petty chatter’s over.
The flash floods have ravaged what was once beautifully crafted sculpture.

Your back contorts in fourths and fifths and snaps at the shoulders.
Evangelistic hoarders would like to have me gagged and quartered.

Dragged into the morgue and made into a flag for the corner,
And slapped by the coroner, born again as a badge for world order.

I was born the day that Lennon died when I realized I’m dead inside.
A mental climbing vessel rode a sea of light and mellow vibes.

A bow upon the cello slides. Men will die for empty pride.
Others die in senselessness and wetten up our heavy eyes.

We can never find the “why” amidst the sentinels and spies.
The urge to level everything and jet into the sky.

Jettison a flying car and settle on a shiny star.
And friendly blast of fresh air can pet my mind and get me high.

Revolution nine will be televised and hella-hyped.
Sell the farmer in the dell the sky and dry the only well in sight.

Peddled a bike through heaven and die in a meadow where I can settle and dine,
On pebbles and wine taking a pipe-full of Reggie or kind depending on life.

A sip from this kettle is fine. We can make sense of this time.
Bask in the scent of the pines I can revel in angelic chimes.