The children are sketching perfect cities on the backs of their eyelids...
Their fingers are clean... their maps are traced in gold leaf and possibility...
Before they learn the street has another name...


We were architects of ether, builders of the dawn
With compass hearts and chemical bonds, before the veil was drawn
We saw the cracks in empires, in the sermons and the sales
A holiness in concrete, where the true communion fails

Then came the sweet physician, with his needle and his creed
A private apocalypse, a solitary deed
To suture up the fracture with a liquid, silver thread
And drink the century's sickness straight into the head

And we saw Saint Junkie walking through the heart of the null
His kindness was a poison, his surrender beautiful
We felt the world die gently in our veins, a sacred flood
A terminal communion, mixing blood and dirty mud

The Control Machine stutters... its data streams run red
Our bodies are the broadcast of what the prophets said
A final, fixed inoculation against the living lie
To exit from the market with a ticket through the eye...

The paradise of scabs, the algebra of need
A thousand televisions playing out the silent deed
We are the naked lunch laid bare upon the page
The price the real demands before it turns another age

And we saw Saint Junkie walking through the heart of the null
His kindness was a poison, his surrender beautiful
We drank the world's last sunset from a warm and rusty spoon
And scheduled our ascension for a silent afternoon

The shot is the prayer...
The rush is the revelation...
The overdose is the only logical conclusion to a life of unvarnished input...
A saint is just a casualty who knows his own name...

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