Superman On Ice – Calibretto 13 – letras

somewhere between motivated and coldyou on the ledge of all 241 ways to be you…basing guess upon guessthere…where…somewhere between motivated and coldbelieving your good friends down to the bile in their beautymarks…they who found you counting back toward yourselfso haven’t dreamt and heavily armedyet another blues thief told in however and oneday…and every monday things begin with indiscriminate street noisemore vague and normal alliance of all those with high levels of workin their blood and clock in their wakeup early shaving damp breakfast skulls with fresh lady’s leg razorso that the oneday the moon might hold a half million nice sizehoods easyand plenty fast restaurantsby cum and by eggand laid low into creaturethencast out in the one cold of all names,this song is about disabowed spermand the mining of human concernmany cells split, many men died in 1998the year of my strong, fair rap collectionthere are foot prints embraced far out on the frozen lake facedepressed and kept from quite some cold ago,and they look brave, dangerous, man madethe sort of mark one can make on the worldyou borrowed the camera from whyand set it up over by the printer and horseheadobsessed with your pressing recordto indulge in the shadows of both here and immortalis it god to name things from thin airto have the wind blow a few hundred dollar bills into your walletto have 100 cc’s liquid luck supplementdug into your bloodby needle point and distant starare you busy losing yourselfin the quiet cell of abandoned old oaklandpants undone, stole eye starting to waternailing a sign that speaks fear to a bank at the man made lakeyou cop youwill you now resort to black umbrellas in the sight blanching sunor stay indoors taking the pill to your face…striking that lightning on nothingattempting to teach yourself the art of cloning at homein a smock killing single cell sheep for straight weeks’til you give it all up for photoshop and using your teeththere in a box with your things, stabbed airholes, and one wingor white lung, when your well will you staysince there is a certain modern earth pain only fit for enduringwhich one does endurelike returning a foster child twice orgoing the distance on songs for somebody else’s compilation.no one’s out there scared you’d set your eyes offall night on the ceiling in the darkthink of a song or maybe breastsi thought i told you, this is not new…skinned by the speed of my one lifeyou have the desperate fair to your eyesthe look of a child who has just swallowed a coin or army manalmost too attuned to the spoils of lovedwishing he’d been born some sort of succulent or larvaebut you’re too soft for all thatyou like your blood kept in the moviesand your head in a jar or a vase in a van on touryour guts clumped like dung in a sturdy hatboxheart slung safely in the stomach of a clean sock or twohere you are a bag of milk to do tricksand not as a function of penniesand how you’ve dreamtnosdam’s skull been predatoredgiven a split at the hairlineand hinged with a lidand in it placedthe single hard marble of artand it is there it is kept