[Mark C.]

Blood on the banister, and flesh in the sky

I might just go there, when the wheels come down

Walk in, freeze to death

After weeks of seeing mud, Cloud One was a fitting place

8 million fists of trash

Have a joke on the staircase, and a fist through the wall

You could delay the birth with drugs, rearrange your features with surgery

Trade in your sex for motion

Apply pressure here for a lifetime

You could take the building by force

But don't drag your feet, don't peer through glass, don't feel a thing

In poor light, at close range, a blunt instrument

This is for the bad ones, the big slow ones

Ready for the meat hook, ready for whatever

Who never go out, never come in

Whose fingers stick to anything

Emotions, handshakes, and piss in the alley

Alone by the telephone

Perfect except for that thing on your neck

You back down again and again

Afraid of the open air, you cling to the surface

Try to squeeze through the cracks

Drag away anything not bolted down