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The Ballad of the Borderline

The soldiers’ boots are polished
The captain drinks champagne
While his dejected girlfriend
Is praying for the rain
The streets are filled with phantoms
And the echoes of my love
Who’s now locked in the bathroom|
Writing an epitaph

Parks overflow with children
Born from dying stars
And the seven-year old veterans
Of their imagined wars
The only one still going
Is this pyromanic sage
Who keeps his medicinal woman
Locked in an opened cage

The sarcastic Assassin
He passed down here last week
With his friend, the mute iconoclast
Who went to curse the meek
While in the communistic highrises
The Nordic fairies moan
For their acidic roommates
Who left them all alone

Down there in the harbor
Behind the mad machines
The librarian’s on fire
From drinking gasoline
Where the fatalistic poet
Recites her single tone
To the assembled seagulls
Fighting for a bone

And me I sit here, dozing
On this speeding train
Next to my strange attractor
And this kleptomanic saint
Who’s preaching to the mass of men
Of their quiet despair
The desperation I can take
The silence I can’t bear

The State Of Grace

We were free.

That was the first thing they told us.
We were free.
It was simple, really, and that simplicity made it beautiful.
We were free,
we were free,
we were so fucking free.

And they showed us the door,
and we sauntered outside,
armed with radical politics
and baseball bats.

There might have been
a few squeals of protest
but that’s so long ago
nobody really remembers.

Our work was holy
and youthful and awesome.
We were free,
and with every tower and bridge
we kicked, face-down, into the mud,
we became more free.

The city, frankly,
didn’t stand a chance,
but even after we’d demolished everything
it took a while for some to realize
that our bats were only hacking into air.

So, then, we stopped.
Caught our breath.
Scratched the muddy zits off of our faces.
Wiped our weapons clean.

And then he raised his voice.
He was one of us, and he said something like:
"Hey, we have to - "

Those were the last words anyone heard
before the crowd squealed from a thousand throats:
"I don’t have to do shit!"
and descended on him
like a flock of angry hawks.

Not long after,
we wiped our weapons again.
Avoided each others eyes.
Avoided words.
Words were for conformists, anyway.
We had more evolved ways to express ourselves.

It was quiet for a while,
and then everybody left
everyone else.

The world was raw and young,
and ours for the taking.
We were free,
after all.