Depressionista

Trained in the art of devastating
the arts by remaining
unmoved in their midst.
We came down, down,
down from that high,
oh, and now we're looking for more.
We're bloodless now,
and we are uninterrupted
by the majesty of it all.
We're passed around,
around, around like the currency
of the friendless roads.
One trick pony.
And the parlor isn't big enough
for the both of us.

'Til death do we rock?
We're so full of shit.
'Til death do we rock!
You keep buying it.
'Til death do we rock?
You're so full of shit.
'Til death do we rock!
You're still buying it.

The closed circuit of stimulus
that runs between fashion
and guilt is winding tighter around the heart.
Our orbits are collapsing upon themselves
we're retreating
into the vogue
where we're sucking the blood
from the necks of guitars.
Beg for the scraps of prose
that piled up behind the bar.
Though we try and try and try
we get the melody wrong
but we remember the words.
We're the parasites
but we are delicate in the way
we bring each other down.
We were oh so close to the start
when they finished us.

Aim the mast at the ground,
Aim the mast at the ground,
And sail us to the belly of the whale.

'Til death do we rock!
We're so full of shit.
'Til death do we rock!
You keep buying it.

The closed circuit of stimulus
that runs between fashion
and guilt is winding tighter around the heart.
Our orbits are collapsing upon themselves
but we stand in the traffic indifferent
to the grand histrionics of god, unmoved.