Paroles
I'm having dreams about essays I've read
Ten or more faggots all in the same bed
And they touch in a way that I'm told is a myth
Lips locked together, and shoulder blades kissed
And in the tangle there's still room to long
And tell all the touchers who else you still want
And maybe its greed on a mythical scale
But none of them are starving, or dying, or frail
I get I'm a pain in the ass to maintain
Eclectic selection of bodies could make
A game of my wholeness, or the lack thereof
Maybe I need more lovers to feel like I'm loved
I'm sick of the back-burn, the flames going out
While we share a smoke on the living room couch
It's stale in the air but its fresh on your breath
And I'll hit from your hands until nothing is left