1. |
i don't care at all
01:38
|
|||
|
cut my hair.
i’m uncertain,
but you swear
i’ll look older
with it cut short.
shut the bathroom door.
a pair of scissors
from the kitchen
open & close.
watch my hair
fall to the floor
& i fall in love.
no.
no, i don’t care at all.
no, i don’t care at all.
no, i don’t care at all.
you know i don’t care at all.
|
||||
2. |
who killed laura palmer?
01:34
|
|||
3. |
in hotel rooms
02:29
|
|||
|
in hotel rooms
let the phone ring in the bedroom
because i have nothing more
to say to you.
left the sink on in the bathroom
as i sat still drowning
in the next room.
you’re drunk again.
i pick-up the phone &
barely make out your voice.
the words are slurred.
you sound like the ocean
only without all the noise.
i thought that we were in love,
but that was back when we were in
the second grade.
twelve years ago.
i don’t know.
yeah.
now i’m nineteen,
maladjusted,
and hiding from everything
in hotel rooms where
floral wallprint only brings back
thoughts of you.
i peel it off slowly,
but it starts to grow back,
& i start to fall asleep.
fully-clothed
on top of sheets.
yeah.
i read this in a book.
it said:
“chess players
only want pieces
they already took.”
oh,
for heaven’s sake.
call myself an artist,
but i hate all the art i make.
kick
my ribcage in
over & over again
until i’m in love with my best-friend.
if i gave this up, would you love me then?
if i gave this up, would you love me then?
|
||||
4. |
a tattooed six
03:32
|
|||
|
a tattooed six
half-asleep—
i don’t wanna leave her bed.
push low her high socks
then tear off my fucking head.
half-awake—
i’m half-an-hour late for class.
& i won’t notice when
her lips start to stain my neck.
yeah.
another morning has found us
waking up.
she’s so damn fine like
the coffee in Washington.
it starts to rain
& flowers grow
out of my brain.
she’ll pick a few
then press them in
the books she’s read
like Dostoevsky
& other shit.
i know i said i don’t care (at all).
i start to think i might care.
yeah.
my clock radio knows nothing
but static.
unplug the cord, but it’s not
an easy fix.
i like the smell
of her perfume,
but hate the taste
it leaves on my tongue.
when i talk,
my teeth fall-out
& disbelief
will fill my mouth.
turn it over
a hundred times,
but the record skips
& the songs don’t rhyme.
on the floor
a half-empty bed.
call me a pessimist.
she’s always in my head.
|
||||
Winter This Year Princeton, New Jersey
all songs written & recorded by nick pane.
somewhere in new jersey.
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