We should befriend the dead
As they fly back and forth
On the backs of angels
They are defeated
In the wars of intimacy
We should listen to their stories
The dead are better story tellers
We should listen
The dead are us

Beneath the act of seeking
There is a void
Except that each death, dies 
As it escapes the memories 
Of the young
The bourgeoisie are fucking it up 
Hanging out 
On a lost cruise ship
On a lost river
Where the history of the divine panic 
Matches ours

Let us stay involved 
In the decoration and accessorizing 
Of ourselves -- it
Is about spirituality 
And its deafness 
To the disappointments of Utopias
I'm without dreams
Only the theology of multivitamins
And some digital hopefulness

It is sexy to be middle-class
With good bumper to bumper traffic 
Yes, the world is going to be interesting soon
If we become particular about love
Let the car find freedom - death is not around the corner

Failing is an act of love
Oh purity
Words are slices of time
They travel with us
Alone with few bags
After the duty free 
Not enough Vodka
To claim humanity

The city is peppered with armored vehicles
They are the fake Hershey kisses of the world
You can sip tea with their drivers
While dreaming of love 
My body is deformed from usage
I am thinking of not giving up
But - from a distance - there is simple violence
And it is tempting to touch each other inappropriately
Just to pretend that all is fine with the world

walking the same streets
sex isn't an escape
it works for a while
if I stopped thinking of hope
and focused on your naked pictures
as I jerk off amid tanks
and imagine the coffee shop 
turning into an orgy
tonight i can write the saddest lines
sex won't work
we are left to combat the middle class
with mere hands