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    This is a poem I wrote around 2008 set to music by ManMadeMadMan this year who produced my forthcoming record entitled [sic]. Video was shot inside of an art installation built in an attic in Milwaukee. Full lyrics below.

    Director / Cinematographer / Editor: Wes Tank https://www.wctank.com
    Production Designer: Kristina Rolander
    Titles by Max Stein

    Get the album here: https://thisishellola.bandc...


    After the crash...

    I yanked my femur out
    hacked a forearm
    and pulled an elbow from your skull.
    There is still hair in these teeth
    tangled like mango pulp.

    you asked how it smelt,
    in your twisted braids,
    and I mumbled...“wood shop.”

    My legs, sea sick and knee knocking.
    Your kiss, bathtub crystal meth.

    This is every hippies first poem about drugs,
    attempting to taste colors on a brick wall,
    misinterpreting all chemical rivers with enlightenment.
    All colors shining;
    each snowflake,
    each fallen leaf
    in full twirl.

    Somewhere in there you called out
    “hold me to a mirror, I’m backwards.”
    but I just took your word for it.

    You approached with a hepatitis needle tongue
    rolling me supine, slicing a cocoon in my hoodie.
    Hungry for shaving nicks.

    I wanted sober so bad I reached for espresso,
    but that touch of skin
    mushrooming in my mind like bureaucratic psilocybin
    left only the words

    I’m all fucked up on you...

    and with each day sunlight broke the horizon’s limitation
    you became the gravity to my hot air balloon,
    letting me know I had to keep the fire alive if I wanted to float,

    and I floated floated high

    floated memorable as red sunset clouds
    popping up in photographs
    as if there was always blood hiding somewhere
    to be sopped up by their cotton white.

    My jacked coordination aimed centripetal
    on my primary motor cortex
    and I owned only sung dizziness

    I don’t care if my pen slobbers when I write,
    If my tongue lolls on my chin in public,
    I have lost my inhibition, have lost my inhibition.

    Crash me, in the fatal choice of a sloshed car ride,
    around your telephone pole of presence,

    my body flung
    in the gnarled gang sign
    of love’s
    permanent neurosis.

    the shattered windshield
    as frost stricken butterfly wings
    sprinkling down

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