I Miss The Zoo

(album: The Ballad Of Boogie Christ: Act 1 - 2013)

I miss the drunk
I miss the fiend
I miss the simplicity of addiction
And the scene
I miss wandering aimlessly
In half-dead sewers with rats for eyes
Chewing on forgiveness
And the will to apologize
I miss the return of no return
As I burn in avalanches
Of white snow and yellow cocaine
I miss talking to brick walls
While following the grain
And human dolls as I plagiarize myself like a dummy
Stuffed with counterfeit money
For Cairo and black honey
I miss illusions begging to be chased
Even as they disappear into me (erased)
Until there is no one or nothing but the chase
And a powdery ghost with no face
(Or faith)
And the woman of my dreams disappearing without grace

I miss the zoo
I miss the zoo
I miss the zoo

I miss evolving into a cloud
Of blue marijuana blown from the lips
Of hookers and pimps
As they shake each other down
In alleys for the dammed but mighty
With no one but the weak around
And the beautiful unsightly
I miss numb Neanderthals marching
In rows of living dead
From my wisdom teeth to Spain and back again (in my head)
I miss salvation in syringes and angels of mercy
In blooms of smoke numbing rain
Which drinks when thirsty
I miss glasses full of spirits
Who without tongues speak to me of Napoleon's wild nights
I miss staying up for days and becoming a psychic pretzel
Flying kites
Chewed on by a Zulu heading with toads to Mars
A mysterious prison
And one without bars
(at least those kind of bars)

I miss the zoo
I miss the zoo
I miss the zoo

I miss waking in the arms of strangers
Like puppies just born in the pound to a dead mother with eyes sealed shut
Looking for a tit to suck
And other dangers
When the night before laughter was our only pursuit
Even as knives carved up our backs
And demons sat like Buddhas eating fruit
Meditating on hate forever in our minds
I miss exposing even my bones
And the need that rewinds
Even my burning home
Even my gutted inner child
Even my dead grandfather
Beneath the ground that's wild
Even my criminal family
Even my weed whacker thoughts
Whipping a thin plastic string
To cut the ears off others
As I sing
I miss van Gogh's revenge
I miss his nightly binge
I miss spiders surrounding my bed
And lifting me as if an effigy
Or a dead king
A prophet of doom
A Jesus for the apocalypse
Wearing dirt like perfume
Or a mother for Satan
Or ghost for all the children of abuse
Taking me into the fire
Watching me burn
Like a goose
As they sing
In spider voices
There goes creation
There goes the moon
There goes the butterfly
Wanting a cocoon
I miss being a bloom
And a goon
Waking up too soon in the afternoon
A doctor of regret
Hanging onto guitar strings in tune
And hanging by a belt
Wrapped around some pipe to nowhere and felt
My lips, too, wrapped around
What appears to be stained glass
As religious figures dress like rocks with class
Burn into gas
To the center of my brain
The euphoria of dying and being born all at once
While wearing the hat that reads “dunce”

I miss the zoo
I miss the zoo
I miss the zoo