Untitled #12 - John Frusciante

Blind your head in catastrophes

Icicles

No-one's fed in cycles led by cycles dead

Ask to shine the flag

Love is distance and blue sits like apples bite

And flows through our hands

I said «Hi» to a man who shot his sister

Panned through the station

And jumped in front of a train

Said «I'm a bit confused to meet you»

Life’s what scissors do to a day

So their smile paves the way

Sand drips with waves

And clouds my head cause I’m a fortune fellas bed

And I’m the tunes played by the goons

Who ride a fairy’s wombs

And stole the road the other way

And sold tomorrow to yesterday and

I know the feeling of pushing you out of a building

Tiny people pulsating hit the sky

Still the ground got up and wiped your face

You expected to fly, wind up your misfortune

Sling 'em to a Maître d'

Who wears dead butterflies on his face

And is hoping to grow wings

He really wants to tell you

«Hey give your tears to today»

Grind yourself souvenirs under your stolen years

Under your pocket

Your hands getting numb, been hurt in grinds jive

Do the avenues that seem to meet defeat you?

Did you ever try to hug the sky, behind your head?

I walked forever sightseeing a screen

Shuffled a mean green ping

Dives head first into a hole in the water

Drives side to side like a floating machine

Dove dancing to a fable told to a sea of disintegration

Crawl to a celebration of dirt that leaves the taste of wine

Sucked from a hair that digs into the darkness

Full of the fair that my head rides

I slide your kind through a ladder

Hanging on a star

Stray close so far

Away from the climb

A tape like section, of introspection

To rewind would be to recline

Hit the pounds underlying gently

Ride on the side

Tell your problems to zero

He’s got nothing to hide