Left (feat. O the Obscure)

Tipsy off fruit
(Tipsy off fruit)
Spill a tear, corrode this suit
(Corrode this suit)
Morning light is brighter now
Mother I'm so sorry how
(Sorry how)
We're both still alone
(Still alone)
Run, forget the phone
(Forget the phone)
Kafka on the Shore
(On the shore)
Through an open door

Razors in my chest
Thunder on my breath
Fires to the west
There is no one left

(My kind of tragedy is a goat ode)
My kind of tragedy is a goat ode
Tragedy, a goat
Ode, a capricious act
In one, an inside joke adroit
With wetted wit
Implode to explore it
The truth and intent of eternity
In-jest your limit
An emotional whodunit
You deserve the best
You dolty squirt, skirt
Your duty and spit
Where you squat
Pat your little vat
And taste the tea
Throw a hissy fit
And lose your shit
Flatter yourself flat out
Clitter-clatter yourself
Down to the dot
Or a T
Be a tatterdemalion smarty butt
Smattered with polyglot argot
Art is dead but
You can still kill it, to quit
Or not to quit, a slowpoke moonshot
Gone boom, to shit
Where you coldly eat, to write
Where you boldly sit,
Bloodshot eyes and a knot
In your throat and still not
Explicit, a deceitful pilot
In the cockpit, a half-mast
Amassed in your heart
A desperate offbeat comment
Ignored becoming a snapshot
Of miscommunication that
Begged to troubleshoot
Loneliness but found no tact
Or even a loving caveat
A golden scapegoat

Razors in my chest
Thunder on my breath
Fires to the west
There is no one left

Franz Kafka walks back slack, at a rat-crawl, pat-sad
Aft a slapdash cat-snack, alas, a tact gap, all whack and dada
And has a mad-hat para-gram grammar attack
A hand falls flat hard, a rampant and banal gasmask can't
Attract aghast and alarm, ah, amass a pall-mall wrath salad, ah
Jam a fat tram, ah, a backwards rap and tap, ah
An asthma attack, ah, a catarrhal rant spat

I might
I might twirl livid, I might bliss ill, I might in hiss-pit-ills
Sit stiff in dim light insipid with sick chills kissing infirm pills
Biting this lip 'til I spit thrilling limpid mini-kills
I'm liking this sniffling, I'm digging this whining
I'm griping with slipping ick-lips 'til I fizz slick
Still wiggling still yipping still jiving
Still singing this thinking shit-trick
Living

O horror
O hollow blood moon who chrono-logos forth
O odor of mold-splotch on old folds
O moot long convos onto fool-goons or sol-poor
Who tho' odd plods or trots on monks' shoos too
No-bod
No-bod opts for stronghold doors
No-bod hops onto swords or ghosts
No-bod hoots for onto-logos fools no mo