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In 25 years I never felt so weird. Up to my ears in bottled messages, the blessing is most deafening - the sound of harsh reckoning, sitting on top of my plane crash with flames and ash beckoning. I hear the wreckage sing married to death without a wedding ring I mourn the harmonies I built while holding up the shortest man with stilts I hate the way I'm writing all passive phrases that shy away from proper nouns. Not much progress for the last seven years but I still reign big terror in the smallest town. Right now is the best time for me to write motivated by only extreme artistic frustration there's no money to sway me there's no label that would dare take me there's no room in me for outside influence I'm bubbling over with self-assurance and defiant blood I'm through with poetry - no more illustrious shields. I'm bringing it raw sick of softening my message for art's sake. I'd pretend I'm not a carnivore but my nice guy voice sounds fake Every poem was a eulogy and every lullaby I told a wake/awake. Aus Songtexte Mania