Black sheep boy #4
Bleeding black sheep boy, mirror in pieces, turn the receiver, trace the police station line to my number, and number my reasons for this paranoia, for these accusations, for each night that the numbers, paired off like lovers, collided together so I can't remember my name or my nation. Baying black sheep boy, go back beyond the pasture, you've cracked out of my head. Get in your battered mustang, and the backseat will be your bed. Burning black sheep boy, dark denim phantom, face full of flames, ears full of cheers that have fanned them. I'd slice off the horns that sprung right from those temples. I was chased from that bedroom and chased from those candles by fear of the numbers, paired off like lovers, collided together so I can't remember my face or my station. Pacing black sheep boy, the floor just won't support you, you hover through the room. Get in your battered mustang and the backseat will be your tomb. And I rode into Baltimore and I found a hotel room, where I tried to escape you but the phone line wouldn't go through. And inside the mirror I saw you, stamping, staring out. I don't recognize your eyes, your mouth or any of those lines that come flying out. Nothing I've heard from you sounds sane or safe: words falling down from the ceiling, where the mirror is stealing the light to reveal us both tonight, and we're both kneeling in the black pool of your shadow. You've cracked out of my head. Go back beyond the pasture, or I'll smash your mirror 'til you're dead.