Chicago Typewriter

Sun light peers through the window of our forsaken house
You look at my face, I look at your face, you put your hand to your mouth
Are you troubled, my dear? Are you boiling with fear? Has your guilt-ridden conscious caved in?
There's no heaven or hell this house is it for us both, let the haunting forever begin.

So I punish my liver like I walked in a caught him fucking my daughter, he was fucking my daughter
I'm a cobweb in the corner, I'm tortured and worn out, but I'd like you to remember me as great
(Great writer, a great lover, great artist, great...)
And so I garnish my liver with the blood of whoever and I tell you I love you because I believe that I love you
I believe you'll leave me a sad empty vessel, and I'll just wander these halls like a slow moving thought

We watch the wood floors warp in the sun patiently pacing til midnight
We watch our corpses decompose in the bleached silver ray of the moonlight
The years forget us as our bones turn to dust, she speaks only when lonely
As we accept fate, just then a family of eight moves in for a small sum of money

So now punished, I shall punish whoever inhabits this house- now a canvas, a puppet with my hand in it
I move through the rooms like a hemorrhaged balloon
I tickle your neck with the stink of my breath
Now I garnish my hate with the torture of eight
I sell them religion because we all need religion
Now enter the priest! He shrieks latin and sprays water
I stick to the walls
In this house I am God

In every home a ghost exists, with every moan the house admits.