The Salt Wound Routine - Thirteen Senses

Red letters on the dashboard, oh what a GAP

They pursue us to the deep end and then depart

Watch as the cracks in the wall feel pain

For only patterns on a snake’s back give us genuine fear

And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire

I get by all the time on a shelf above the door

And it shouldn’t be clear but it’s not for me to decide

It’s a delicate degree

It’s a number I can see

Could prison cells be in my brain

For they’re safe inside the cover of a dirty face

And everybody finds a college graduate with joy

While I’m happy just sipping tonic water with lemon and lime

And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire

I get by all the time on a shelf above the door

And it shouldn’t be clear but it’s not for me to decide

It’s a delicate degree

It’s a number I can see

You sit at home up late at night

When it’s beginning to arrive

And honestly

I don’t see the need for any routines

I’m all out of sink, I cover my cuts

And hope they are fixed before I get hurt again

And all this ground beneath my feet

Has decided not to crumble into the sea

I walked in a house, it smelt of paint

And the ceiling it has no trouble with me