MAY THE DAYS BE AIMLESS
[Verse 1: milo]
Dead people don’t watch me like paparazzi
And there’s no afterlife where they pop, lock and knock knees
The dead have a presence I could post it in a sentence
Dying is not a lived event
Your life insurance plan would have been better spent on your son’s little league tournament
You whisper Necronomicon when you’ve never heard of it
I’m in the front pew reciting lines that I heard from the Silver Jews through a Yoni wolf verse, like:
"In 1984 I was hospitalized for approaching perfection"
My stomach hurts
I look like a cat burglar
Conversations are so hard I don’t want to have Aspergers
I want to eat veggie burger sandwiches on sesame seed buns
And watch Sesame Street reruns
I want to console myself with energy from my childhood
So I started gardening and asked questions only a child could
Computers make mistakes because of carpet static
I make mistakes and then go fart in the attic
Death marks the end of uneventful things
I’ve hidden so many facts in my precognitive functions
If I could unlock that map that would really be something (Something, something)
[Chorus]
May the days be aimless, let the seasons drift
Do not advance the action according to a plan
May the days be aimless, let the seasons drift
Do not advance the action according to a plan
May the days be aimless, let the seasons drift
Do not advance the action according to a plan
May the drift be action, let the plans be aimless
Do not season days according to advance
[Verse 2: WC Tank]
I borrowed a dollar to purchase a pillow at Yvonne Rainer’s Garage Sale
I walked into the desert and saw a mirage of a floating whale
And forgot to care and bought a flash flare
Took a triple dog dare to literally firefight an autobiographical life crisis in mid-air
Car lights on night walks through rain windows make great events
For sane people in hot tubs
Make great events for sane people in cartoons
Angels crying at funny angles forming parenthetical clouds
Subdivide pyramids, pour light through clear liquid
Peer through a clearing, paint the path vivid
Two signs devise on either side of the divide
My feet both asleep and I’m sitting in a tree
Used to be a mystery all about the energy
Mother of invention, cross through dimensions
Focused attention, perfect penmanship, cycles of self-censorship
Subvert the space to refract the active layer
Reverse the ray mache to make paper
Plaster of Paris to rasterize layers, cast the right players, pastors, and mayors
Divinate crashes on flash drive prayers
Fall fast height-wise on invisible winding stairs
Toward a light hydrant, a blinding flare