Okkervil River Follow

From the back of my brain*
The confetti-burst came,
And it blew through the balls of my eyes.

In a midnight as loud as a cloud of cocaine
And horrendously swollen in size,
I saw the pen press the text through the flesh of your neck –

And the first line ‘twas writ there was:
“Christ’s a spun-silver machine,
Or a high wall of white waving cream.
The sun streams from his side,
Because he’s out on a razor line.”

In dark and dirty streams,
The decay from our dreams leaves a black trail
Of grease through the snow.

And is there a hotel there?
Or is there a hole where our bodies,
all aching and aging, can go?

I leapt from the mountain and, mid-falling-down,
I ran my trembling hands down your spine.
Because you have been and are currently holy to me,
and will hopefully always be mine,
and because you’re out on a razor line.

In the storm’s scream and swirl is where I saw my girl.
I was pinning her straight to my side when the devil,
all dinged-up and dragonfly-winged,
dropped his head in my lap and he cried:
“NOW WE’RE RIGHT OUT ON THAT LINE!”

Once, I spotted my man swooping over the sand.
In the ambulance lamps of his eyes
and the smell of black blood on the backs of his hands
I could tell that his world can’t be mine.

But he said, “The earth seems to spin just fine.
All through space,
all through blameless night
on the blade of a razor line.”