She's into heroin
looks just like a mannequin
He's not paying rent this month
blew it all on junk
She's got every Nico record
he's got all the beatnik books
they're both into the underground
they swear real soon they'll leave this town
... and mostly drive around
She's a hemophiliac
he's the new Jack Kerouac
He keeps a needle by his book
he writes at night, she sits and looks
She's tightening the tourniquet
her eyes are rolling back, she's hit
with liquid moonlight in her veins
she's stretched beneath his hovering
He is Dr. Morphine
with pornographic magazines
She's into science fiction
a nicotine addiction
Sitting like two skeletons
with messy hair and pale white skin
there's no reason to go outside
let's you and I stay here inside
Barrett, Bowie, Beatles, needles
Arbus, Witkin, cockroach kitchen
long coat, black hat, electric doormat
sexless, sleepy, books of human oddities
anomalies, abominations,
experiments on masturbation
a suitcase full of secret lies,
a childhood photograph that smiles
a gravestone for a father's head
a child that will not know it's dad
no love, no god, no Jesus Christ
now fuck all this and let's get high
A true hidden treasure of a song writer. This gent has been capturing songs in demo form on old tape recorders since the 80s. . . and he's still capturing his magic sounds in his secret basement. Damien Youth