She lives with a broken man.
A cracked polystyrene man.
Who just crumbles and burns.
He used to do surgery.
For girls in the eighties.
But gravity always wins.
And it wears him out.
She looks like the real thing.
She tastes like the real thing.
My fake plastic love.
Why don’t you tell me about the mystery dance?
I want to know about the mystery dance?
Why don’t you show me. Cause I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’m still mystified.
I can’t do it anymore and I’m not satisfied.
Well I remember when the lights went out.
I was trying to make it look like it was never in doubt.
She thought that I knew and I thought that she knew. Both of us were willing… but we didn’t know how to do it.
Why don’t you tell me about the mystery dance?
‘The problem is all inside your head.’ she said to me.
“The answer is easy if you take it logically.”
“I’d like to help you in your struggle to be free. “
“There must be 50 ways to leave your lover.”
Outside, there’s a tree in gardens.
Its roots in earth are under frost.
Whose limbs sway easy in the winds.
Like the way some minds can toss.
The morning light ends early.
Somehow, warmth is on the day.
And some of us just grow older.
While others just go away.
Give me crack and anal sex.
Take the only tree that’s left.
And stuff it up the hole that is your culture.
She lives with a broken man.
A cracked polystyrene man.
Who just crumbles and burns.
He used to do surgery.
For girls in the eighties.
But gravity always wins.
And it wears him out.
She looks like the real thing.
She tastes like the real thing.
My fake plastic love.
And I think it’s kind of funny.
And I think it’s kind of sad.
That the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had.
I find it hard to tell you.
I find it hard to take.
When people run in circles. It’s a very very mad world.
Enlarging your world.
Mad world.
We’re setting sail for a place on the map. From which no one has ever returned. Drawn by the promise of the Joker and the fool, and the light of the crosses that burn. Drawn by the promise of the women and the lace. And the gold and the cotton and pearls.
It’s the place where they keep all the darkness you need.
You sail away from the light of the world on this trip baby…
He’s a poet, he’s a picker. He’s a prophet, he’s a pusher.
He’s a pilgrim and a preacher and a problem when he’s stoned.
He’s a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction.
Taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home.
She never mentions the word addiction.
In certain company.
She’ll tell you she’s an orphan.
After you meet her family.
Said she talks to angels.
They call her out by her name.
Dennis Mantin 
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