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Hell In Theory

from Seisin by J Alfred Prufrock

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lyrics

He never understood the phrase "life is a dream" until he rose with his conscious and it stayed beneath. Rather it stayed between, so it was hard to speak. He didn’t want to die no more, nah, he just wanted peace. A goodnight's worth sleep to put him back in pieces; he was an egg man posted up like Jesus. But the thorns turned to hair turned to dirt real quick; rubbed with his thumbs like making a wish. He wasn't making up shit. His every fear was real. Sad truths came out no matter how he concealed them. It didn’t take much time before he forgot himself. He didn't recognize the being he unbearably felt. He had to crack a smile so to not shed tears. A red face laughing at the fright in the mirror. He had no eyes like he had no mind. They said even without them he'd still be fine. His bones are not his own because he's damn sure they don't fit. You can strike the stage of time, but the curtains swing ageless. His bones are not his own because he's damn sure they don't fit. You can write around the lies, but that doesn't mean truth exists. Down in a vault, he ground water to salt; proudly at fault for every misplaced bolt. For every mislaid stitch he heard the background rip, revealing grand nothingness warm and thick. He wasn't warned of this that's why it's such a surprise. A slave to context, still clutching the sky and rushing to find the source of discontent. Some are more comfortable misfortunate. Proportionate to the time at waste being alive in space, it's a conniving race toward goals ever-obscured. Hermetically born; shield tepidly worn and eventually shorn. Nude and nonlinear, he never was pure. He gambled for faces to settle the score. Contempt and rewards were checked at the door, as real as death when it stepped to the fore.

credits

from Seisin, released March 8, 2013

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J Alfred Prufrock image

J Alfred Prufrock Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

contact: cruelestapril@gmail.com

***I have no formal relation to Thomas Stearns***

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