I'm a band in a show about a man holding hands with his wife on a therapist's couch, with his face to the ground (after fucking around countless nights) and, in this one episode, close-up cameras are showing him crying, his red head and his red eyes.
I'm a band in a show about a boy being buried alive, from his head to his toes, by a criminal (but with a sensitive soul!) with a set of raccoon eyes, and there's this scene in the show when a hustler knows he's going to die. The ground opens and he climbs inside. And as he speaks his last line, a thought falls from his mind and I pick it up right through the TV: Is there a hand to take hold of the scene?
I'm a man in a dream and there, dancing in front of my eyes, is a queen - formed out of flaws, with her eyes all gone odd and a rod bolted into her spine. She rises up like a yawn. She grips my heart like a claw. She splits apart like a jaw, like an eye. And she asks me with a sigh, When we're so far from right, when we're losing the fight, when we're letting the light weaken its beam - is there a hand to take hold of the scene?
I want a smile like a glistening shard. I want a kiss that's as sharp as a knife. The day expires, and the dry, cracked, trembling lips God saw fit to put this kiss inside, I push them up to you. I'd like to bear witness to a light that is fine and is filling the cryingest eyes, grace in each face that is making the wastedest, brokenest ones fairly fly, love that is innocent of that old cynical, covetous, cancerous vibe, and a beauty that annihilates all life like it's lived in these nights, holding your hatred tight like a sign that you're right or you're strong. When your doors are shut tight, I will dream you tonight, and my dream will just sweep you along. When all fires are fanned, when we're shucking our plans, when we're too weak to stand on our two feet - is there a hand to take hold of the scene?
