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letra de bread & circuses - qwel & jackson jones

another plan, another man will stand up
i never been a fan of the phantom’s opera
the mannequins dancing with the anacondas
rocking to the trance of the shock from chakra
clocks spin the same way, they painted it aqua
no coincidences shown in mint, the offer
frozen in the grips of his nimble little finger
swinging ripples in the middle of the air
it’s crop dust
or send a sentimental glare to stop us
the element of fear, with incredible stock cuts
no heavy metal here, just inedible rock guts
inaudible pop hush, they outta go mock us
ox busts, running tonka trucks in the hot mud
returning to the furnace with the surface of sod clumps
herded with shotguns, and burning the god crumbs
yearning for top crust, reverted to see-saw
first we heard it, then we learned how to murder it, right
who’s gonna sing me a song? or better, ring the alarm?
or better leave me a bomb? or call it tourniquet tight?
observe the bird in freefall, with his circuits in flight
serpentine strike might certainly lighten your load
purple green glow, where should we go?
earth can be cold, eternally snow

suppose the vermin learned to burden certain sections
of known discerning, meant for learning lessons
perverted best guesses, to determining “less-thans”
“well yes then, as earthlings we’re most certainly cursed”
as she curtseys at the dead end
suppose she had free range to rearrange the questions
to dress ’em, to reflect the s-xtant
yes i guess we have a quest then
hence direction, immense deception
is sent with a message to request the quest’s end
present the questions, present the quest’s end
forms standing, worn, warped, shadows saluting
grasp to handle the sandstorm, pouring through his eyes
pursuing his mind from what he’s doing
putrid sky, “am i human?” he muses
lashes loose, magma, gashed and bruised
as the answer slashes through him
rust hands, spewing, loosened quicksand
sees a man on a sand dune, a looming question
can it be the man with his message?
the never ending quest, that’s been pestering head
is it better if he never ever gets it?
what if it’s the truth, but refuses to accept it?
or chooses to reject it?
“move feet” losing his direction
woozy, doing it in sections
pulling through the wool breeze
shuffle through the glue steamed fume
just to view it for a second
man he gotta get at least a peek
then he’s sure to get a little peace
rest when he sleeps, or the lack therefore
’cause the fact of the matter: piranhas swarm his sleep
wants a cease of the shrieks, it’s release he seeks
it’s relief, belief on the brink of falling
needs a drink a water, calling it a week
leave, receive the order, forty feet, he’s on him
thirty feet, twenty, sun beat
three before he saw him
stump reach to greet an eaten arm
crawling near the jaw, knees weakened to falling
sinking, nauseous, stink of brine swine and pinkish olives
speaking tweak to commas
not on his stop, a bit to wonder yonder
rotted eyes, like if he had a tongue, he’d laugh
expend his last action, to flip me off or get me off the path
mind to hike just to spite him, or leave him spiked in
or be like him, life like he remembers
except with no direction
as the deaf sender renders best guesses
and less sun just gestures westward
head hurts, scabby tongue, hum under perching vultures
road to run, swollen gums
and the shadows circle like clock’s hands
and the earth starts to swarm around like it’s fish and not sand
what is this ripped wrist, deep in the moat of locusts?
stranded, behold another man standing center
breast strokes to what he’s holding
shimmers golden in the bitter sun
it’s glitter for the hopeless
when he saw close enough, he must’ve started choking
any noise he would have uttered would have utterly broke him
funny, for the first time in this desert he was cold and frozen
before he noticed he felt his mouth start to motion
then had his swollen croaking throat stolen by the time gl-ss he showed him
sand rapidly flowing to the top, actually floating
empty chamber, half-empty chamber, last overflowing
said he could show him to path, mustn’t show him where the road went
told him the trick to floating through the locusts is in the wrists
keep your hope open like your hands, stranded, only balling your fists
appalling thought, for want of water, and he’s off with a wish
fought through the locusts of with broken salt gnawing at his wits
march, marshmallow blister
and a paw at a glimpse
then off in the mist he gets a glint from the fog
peep, no longer trusts his eyes
thinks, he must admit he’s been wrong
grit grips at his knees and eyes
he crawls, each thought spent for breathing
heaving distance shrinking in between each claw
then he saw a hand reaching long with a sheet in its palm
couldn’t grab it if he had to, the heat was too strong
peep, neatly, flew it perfect view, not thinking too long
said, “i got a message unless it’s a drink that you want”
down to seconds left, sweating, death blinked
and met the heading
head and neck getting set for sleep
gets to reading along

hit him like a riddle in the middle of a fist fight
right, like he bit a nickel, l!cking on a nine volt
mind jolt
mine shows an image of a chicken climbing back inside an egg in spirals
a picture of an infant, slipping on a tight rope
give it a cycle
is it that the instant that he listened to the message
he was spinning in the wreckage of lifeboats
known that he was destined for the quest of the highroad
heat shook and beat, weak, please look at these
peep, appalled at all the woulda coulda shoulda took a drink

- qwel jackson jones

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