i will swim as far as i need to,
but i won't sing again
with or without the intentions that acccompany
anarchy.

it's a romantic notion as idea hands cup wishful jaws
and imaginary lips will crawl up your neck like spiders
gone when you wake up.
oh, libertarians, with crisp starched dress shirts
going to prom in canadian suburbs
and i am still waiting for a train

to write and to open a river
that i walked up, that you'll see when we switch spots
i have no idea yet what the way is like
whether i need to watch my uneven footing

thank god of my five feet, two inches nonwithstanding
less and less to trip and hit and fall,
and i can escape situations with ease

i won't love marx for anyone,
i won't give up my love of the man for you.
i'll suckle a capitalist teat and you can hate me
but we never stepped near enough for either of us to matter
patterns like fishes can sweep up and down my mind,
and it's the same way everytime.

first, a connection
it will take a while to bloom, of course, but when hope is exhausted elsewhere
the ashes can settle in my gut, caught in your gaze
next the convictions
as chameleon-like, i will change
not ever trusting even ituition to take me where i need to.

i'm a whore to the capitalist machine,
you're a beautiful but yet impossible dream
and thought what we might've been will always be sweet
never unaided will the 'twain meet.