Don't try me in the first time, she said
There is nothing to do
when I never do it
in the first time
Sometimes feel better
Sometimes feel bad

The night
will always
be the night
It never be yours
It never be me
It never be ours

Don't try me in the first time, she said
I try to fix everything
what I never fix it
Somebody tell to do right
but I never be right

Don't try me in the first time, she said
Because she never does it
and I never let me do it
in the first time
and I am not in the first right time

break from this hiatus of pressure
back to ultimate rebirth
there is room for a different world
in action

baby i'm your poison
and you're my antidote
a taste almost divine
sinfully saccharine sweet

raise me from perdition
with your heavenly lips
kiss me til there’s nothing left
but marks blossoming red

let's let go for a while
don't be shy and come closer
i promise i won't bite
but i'd love it if you did

darling just wait and see
we were made for each other
i'd love to see how well
those hands fit around my neck

Who cares who is thinking, if I am not?
I wonder if I ever know,
when I say I do,
do you?

One life, it's a world with one just life.
And here you are in my life,
Telling me to be brave and live a good life.
But now it's too late and there's a knife
In his hand and he's full of pride
He's at your side
Better luck in another life,
He slides the silver into my wife.
I tried, I tried, I tried
But they all lied.

A man tired from the waking day
hangs his keys on the beaded hook,
lets the hat off his grateful head.
He places himself in front of the table
where he laid down his papers,
his skins and his skin.
He put on the table, the day's characters,
mulled them over in the electronic hum of Aleph and coffee flavoured eyes,
rolled them up tight with tomorrow's fears
and set them alight.
He put there a glass ashtray to catch the embers of regret.
He put on the table his dear friend, Old Man Wibble,
the bedlamite seer,
drunken oracle,
"liquid Jesus, straight from the bottle"
and longed for a glass to raise.
He put there the smoke from his exasperated lungs
and the wistful music of his tired throat,
he put there every last syllable and every letter left lingering on a lost lovers lips.
He put hope on the table,
for the weight might crush him as he sat
but not the table,
solid under this load,
to bear weight is what a table must do
and tomorrow will always bring another pile.

No matter how hard I try
I cannot speak
I cannot write
I cannot live